


Strong Coffee Served Here

by compo67



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Angst, Barista Jared, Blind Date, Coffee, Coffee Shops, Dad Jensen, Dating, Divorced Jensen, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mpreg, New England, Older Characters, One Night Stands, Past Relationship(s), Post-Divorce, Small Towns, Song Lyrics, Surrogacy, Vermont, coffee addict Jensen, coffee shop owner Jared, surrogate Jared
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-29
Updated: 2018-05-21
Packaged: 2018-09-03 00:47:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 46,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8690077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/compo67/pseuds/compo67
Summary: Middle Road, Vermont has six thousand and ninety-nine cafes less than Paris. It has one. A fairly simple one, nothing extraordinarily fancy or ostentatious. This does not mean that The Bird and the Rifle Coffee Shop lacks personality. From plenty of regulars to a crew of coffee-loving baristas, TB&TR keeps the residents of Middle Road warm, caffeinated, and happy. Jared pours his heart and soul into his business, but is he missing out on a latte? Or has he just gone twenty-two weeks too long drinking decaf?





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

Historians estimate that there were forty-seven thousand cafes in nineteenth century Paris.

Forty-seven thousand cafes to start and end the day, to claim a seat and share gossip, to see and be seen, to be simultaneously in company and completely alone. Who sat where, when, and with whom--and of course, what they ordered--were vital details of everyday life. With forty-seven thousand to choose from, it was easy to get lost in conversation, immersed in the aroma of roasted  _ grains de cafe _ . 

That was and is Paris. 

Recent times yield about seven thousand cafes across the Parisian arrondissements. 

Middle Road, Vermont has six thousand and ninety-nine cafes less than Paris. 

It has one. 

A fairly simple one, nothing extraordinarily fancy or ostentatious. This does not mean that The Bird and the Rifle Coffee Shop lacks personality. Effort went into every design--from the look, size, and placement of the bar to the study nooks against the large wall to the floor to ceiling windows in the front. Nothing was installed without Jared’s input and permission. He didn’t want just any windows for the front; he chose windows that open and double as doors to the patio. 

TB&TR serves Middle Road’s community of nine thousand. 

Mara, who will kill anyone that utters her full name Xiomara, opens the shop Mondays, Tuesdays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. She starts promptly at six in the morning and leaves by three, unless a catastrophe occurs, like it did last week when Oliver called off due to the flu, but it just so happened that every single college student from Middle Road College decided it was the perfect time to swarm TB&TR. Mara and Jared worked alone from ten to five, until Lana arrived. 

Today feels like that day. 

Jared opens TB&TR on Thursdays to go over and put away the order with Lana while business is slow in the earlier hours. He keeps track of inventory, but Lana does a good job of it too, so in between customers they rotate the fridges, the coolers, the stockroom, and supplies. First in first out. All the old stuff gets pulled forward and all the new stuff gets pushed back. All the milk they use in a day should either be about to expire or expiring in the next couple of days. It isn’t terrible if they run out of milk here or there, but the price shoots up if Jared orders too little. If he has to run to grocery store three blocks away, each gallon costs him $3.25, but when he orders in bulk through his supplier out in Medford, gallons go for $2.00 a piece. And it doesn’t make sense to pay more for milk while he’s also paying more for payroll because this, that, or something else happened. 

It adds up.

This week’s order came in with something leaking from a box and a strange smell coming from the center of the pallet. Their first customer, Julian, a Math major at MRC, didn’t mention the smell, so Jared thought maybe it wasn’t so bad. But their second customer, Val, a Communications major, held her nose as she ordered and commented that if they were trying a new roast, they should get rid of it now, before the smell seeps into the good coffee.

One thing turned into another and Jared got pulled onto the bar. He expects a line to form at around eight thirty every morning. That’s a sign of good business. What he doesn’t expect is for the line to multiply three times before forming a small eye of the storm effect. Lana hurries to wipe down the counters and make more bold brew while Jared rushes to wipe down the bar, clean the steaming wands, mix more mocha, and make more whipped cream. 

Mrs. Johnson wants her usual caramel macchiato made in an unusual way.

Daisy requests six lattes to go, plus three bagels--all sliced and toasted. 

Katarina wonders why they don’t offer grilled cheese sandwiches but orders a coffee anyway.

The coolers under the bar need to be wiped down. Something spilled way in the back and every time Jared opens them to fish out a new gallon he gets a nice whiff of it. And that pallet still smells. People come through, regulars, tourists, new customers, folks who have only ever experienced gas station coffee or the terrible stuff poured from their Keurigs. For some, TB&TR is part of their everyday routine--just like Paris. They press through their lives and manage to swing by for their favorite order. One Americano. One espresso. Two doppios. Three cappuccinos. Four lattes--one with whole milk, two nonfat, one almond with two sugars and extra foam but not as much foam as a cappuccino, please. 

Three fifty. Dollar seventy five. Pastry? Bagel? Cookie? Four chocolate chip cookies. Lana sells an add-on to almost every transaction. She makes the cookies, bagels, pastries, bags of chips, cinnamon rolls, brownies, everything sound like an absolute necessity regardless of the drink being ordered. Even a bottle of water--dollar fifty--needs a bag of chips or a tin of peppermint mints. 

Middle Road has one and only one coffee shop. 

And Jared doesn’t make any profit if he doesn’t pour his heart and soul into it. 

A dollar here. Two dollars there. Tips. Curbing waste. Knowing when to expand items or focus on improving what they already offer. Understanding the intricacies to payroll and morale. Scheduling. Inventory. Orders. Marketing. Legal. Human Resources. Investments. Rent. The loan to the bank. He’s twenty grand away from paying off the initial two hundred thousand dollar loan it took to get TB&TR started six years ago. 

Jared takes care of it all. 

He knows the prices to everything in hundreds of combinations so well he could recite them in his sleep. The first year, money was so tight it was just him and Mara for the majority of the time. They had limited selections of coffee and add-ons. Every time a gallon or two went to waste or something had to be refilled because they ran out early it impacted Jared’s wallet. Lean times, lean times. 

But they’re on their way. 

“Smooth operator,” Lana sings, watching Jared man the bar. “Go, go, go, you got this!” 

It takes late nights. Early mornings. Clopening shifts during the holidays. Weekends? Reports of Jared’s free time are grossly exaggerated. 

“Mrs. Johnson,” Jared calls out. He sleeves her cup and hands it to her directly. If the customer is there waiting for their drink there’s no reason to place it on the counter. A direct hand-off, complete with eye contact and a smile no matter how tired he feels--that’s the kind of business Jared runs. “You enjoy and take care. Tell Julio I said hi.” A second pause. “Daisy, Katarina. Here we are, thank you. Let me know how you like the bagels. I double bagged them and don’t you worry--napkins, knives, and butter are all inside. Reese! Been a while. I accidentally made a medium instead of a small, you keep that between you and I. Shavaughn, you look lovely. We just broke out the cinnamon rolls.” 

July was a great month. Oliver helped perfect their iced coffee. Mara and Lana pushed the last of the season add-ons and merchandise for minimal waste. Whatever they didn’t use, Jared donated to the food pantry and the library’s community programming. Tips were plentiful. The rent was paid early. And Jared received confirmation that his pregnancy was going just fine. 

Everybody’s got a job, some people have two.

Jared’s second job has just started kicking. He wonders what’s next all while brewing a new pot of French roast, making a mental note that people have liked this blend and he should move things around in the next order to buy more. 

Surrogacy wasn’t exactly something Jared grew up thinking he’d do. But neither was owning his own business, especially in Vermont. He’s from San Antonio--the exact opposite of Middle Road. His first winter here? He almost hightailed it back to Texas. People weren’t meant to survive in tundras and they definitely weren’t meant to  _ enjoy _ it. 

What kept him being a surrogate was his body’s reaction to being pregnant. Morning sickness? Nope. Never. Feeling sluggish? Nothing more than the usual exhaustion from running TB&TR. Headaches? Congestion? Swollen feet? Nope, nope, and nope--despite being on his feet eight to ten hours a day. As he explained to every curious person who asked, “Uh, why?,” pregnancy didn’t change his everyday life that much. He just had to drink more water, eat a little better, take vitamins, and his body took care of the rest. Oh, and drink decaf. 

Since it was easy for him, why not help out folks for whom it wasn’t as easy? 

And with the money he received from the agency, he could pay off TB&TR’s loan or save for the future. Plus, orgasms while pregnant are nothing short of amazing.

Win/win. 

Loving parents get babies. Jared gets to experience something incredible his body can do and afford to keep his business afloat. 

There were a few times in the first two years where TB&TR had to cut back on everything. Where Jared was working twelve or fourteen hours and doing one hundred and ten percent of everything in the store from mopping the floors to cleaning the machines to making bank deposits and unclogging the drains. 

He still does some of that. 

But now he can sit in the office once Mara starts her shift at eleven instead of twelve. Not only are the unusually busy--like holy shit, did everyone in Middle Road just decide not to go to work today, but he’s not complaining, nope, never--but the cooler and the pallet are starting to seriously overpower the smell of coffee and that’s not okay. 

This baby kicking its way through his organs right now isn’t exactly helping, either. 

“Yo, Jared, what’s the wi-fi password?” Ah, Trevor, the cardboard cutout of Vermont’s privileged youth--trust fund baby, that terrible haircut from 1990’s Tommy Hilfiger ads, Political Science major intent on striking it rich, and always too cheap to tip ninety nine percent of the time. 

“Did you buy something, Trev?” Jared purposefully steams milk as Trevor opens his mouth to reply. Whoops. Too loud to listen. Not that it stops Trevor, but at least Jared can’t hear him for the moment. 

“Wi-fi is a human right.” 

“No, it’s really not.” 

“I don’t have cash.”

“Aw, daddy took away your credit cards, huh?”

“As  _ if _ .” 

“Trev, if you’re gonna stand around quoting Clueless, get out of the way for actual customers.”

“I need to study. And what’s Clueless?”

Too easy. “Order something or go to the library.”

“Will you go with me? Or better yet, we could have dinner.”

“Trevor.”

“Or you could just give me the wi-fi password and I can stay here.”

“No!” 

“I have my own car.”

“Then you can afford to buy a cup of coffee. Mary? Did you want extra mocha? Just making sure. Lana, can you refill the cups for me? Yes, I see you there, Shirley, I’ve already got yours started. Trevor,” Jared huffs, “if you don’t leave, I’m going to make you leave. And trust me. You don’t mess with a pregnant dude capable of steaming milk to six hundred degrees and throwing it in your face.”

Trevor frowns. “I’d smell like milk all day.” 

“That would be the  _ least _ of your problems,” Jared grumbles. “Mary, you’re all set. Here we are. And a cup of whipped cream for Alexander Hamilton. David, nice to see you. Luda, medium nonfat latte with a hint of cinnamon, thank you, come back again soon.” 

Finally, Trevor steps up to Lana at the register. If Jared wasn’t so concerned about getting blood on the counter or the custom mahogany hardwood floors, he would more than likely reach over and smack some sense into Trevor. 

Lana laughs--long and hard--holding a cup in her hand, Sharpie at the ready. 

“This kid,” Lana blurts out, “wants to ask you out for dinner on the cup.” 

There aren’t enough eye rolls in the entire solar system. Galaxy. Universe. Existence of everything and anything ever. 

“What’s he ordering?” Jared dares to ask, not even looking up from crafting latte art. 

“Small coffee with room for cream.” 

“I don’t date anyone who orders a small coffee with room for cream--the cheapskate’s version of a latte.” 

“You don’t date anyone period,” Lana snickers and writes a big X on Trevor’s cup. They both ignore Trevor’s loud protests on the other side of the counter. Behind the bar is a sacred space. No one but a barista will know, appreciate, or understand the sanctity of the a well-maintained, well-stocked, clean and organized bar. With the whipped cream he made last hour, they’ve got enough to hold out until Sanjay arrives for his closing shift at five thirty. There’s mocha made, syrup and caramel bottles filled, and plenty of espresso beans on hand. 

“We are not getting into this.” 

“Oh, sure. Totally not getting into it, boss man.” 

“Nope. Nuh uh.” 

Except they totally are. Because not only can Lana upsell and extract tips from even the regulars, she an also suss out information from people like a hardened FBI agent. And unfortunately, after Jared shoves Trevor his small coffee with room for cream across the counter and ignores him, there’s no line left. 

Down time. Jared runs a hand through his hair, which he left down today, and rubs his lower back. So far, he’s managed not to stain his uniform. The idea for TB&TR uniforms came from his favorite cafes in Paris: fitted black pants, crisp black, button down short or long sleeve polos, and charcoal aprons tied at the waist. He stopped wearing the apron around week sixteen with this pregnancy, the earliest yet. He went to eighteen and twenty with the previous two, but that may have been his own self-consciousness. Now, on his third pregnancy, he could care less about looking perfect and put together all the time. 

“So…” Being the brave soul that she is, Lana simultaneously brings up the subject again  _ and _ tackles the pallet. “Let’s say you had to choose a type.”

“Are we sixteen?”

“Pretend.”

“If I’m sixteen, I don’t trust myself to choose.”

“For once play along.”

“How about I don’t and we say I did.” 

“Do you really want me to drop this?” 

TB&TR enjoys a few consecutive moments of peace and tranquility. All is right and well in their world. Customers don’t immediately need anything. There isn’t a line. If someone walks up, a drink can be made without any major sacrifices or catastrophes. 

“No,” he sighs. “But don’t expect answers.”

Lana brightens up. “That’s okay! What if I told you my friend’s dad just moved here two weeks ago and he’s hot  _ and _ single  _ and _ gainfully employed  _ and _ he likes coffee?”

A small, amused smile tugs at Jared’s mouth. “So I’m dating dads now, huh? And if he really likes coffee, how many times has he stopped in here since he moved?” 

“He was busy moving,” she quips, not bothering to mention the actual number: zero. “But now he’s all settled in and Abby says he’s single and ready to mingle.”

“If those were his exact words, I will legit throw up right now.” 

“He’s cute, I promise.”

“You though Trevor was cute.”

“That was before he opened his mouth.”

“What a nice two seconds that was.”

“You’re deflecting.”

“Mmm two points for the Psych major.”

“Blind dates can be fun.”

“Nope. I like things to be planned. Guess what?”

“What?”

“I don’t like guessing games.”

Out of the blue, a customer approaches. Lana swings towards the register and Jared takes his place at the bar. This customer, an older gentleman in a navy pea coat, doesn’t seem interested in small talk, so neither Lana nor Jared pursue it. They work as they have worked together for the past year and a half. Lana works part-time and picks up mostly mid-shifts, preferring to take night classes at Middle Road because they tend to be less populated by douchebags. 

When Jared and his friend from college, Sully, designed TB&TR, he specifically wanted a space that was darker, with warm, colorful accents. The bar, the register, the floors, and the tables are all similar shades of cocoa. One of the back walls is exposed brick, and Sully added a partition created entirely out of stained glass in hues of coral, blue, and green. Four black couches sport orange and violet pillows, plus crocheted gray blankets. Jared installed a mix of community and single tables, some of the tabletops painted blue or orange, with vintage lamps and candles scattered throughout. 

And he had to hang up lanterns and lights. 

This customer, however, grabs his large coffee with a shot of espresso and leaves right away. The decor and architectural stylings that Jared and Sully spent hours on are lost on him. 

But it gives Lana a chance to look at Jared and say, “You’re awfully defensive about this.” 

Jared feels his nose scrunch at the somewhat accurate statement. “I’m not defensive. I’m just being cautious.” 

“Bull.”

“We aren’t all twenty-two year old spring chickens.”

“Just one date.” 

“With a stranger? What if he talks too fast? Or asks me a bunch of questions before I’ve decided that he can?”

“You can handle it. You handle people everyday.” 

“What if he sits too close? Or calls the waiter by his first name? What if he’s a complete jerk? Or what if when he sees me, he doesn’t like me?”

“Not possible.”

“What if he runs the other way? What happens then?”

“I swoop in to save you and punch the daylights out of him.”

“You’ll be in class.”

“Thus the swooping!”

“I’m fine where I am. I get the best view.”

Two customers. Two lattes. Two cookies. Jared clears out the cooler under the bar and preps a bucket of sanitizer and rags. His life: so glamorous. At least he doesn’t have to clean out the drains for another week. They all take turns. Thank god. 

“When’s the last time you had a really good time with someone?” Lana softens her tone. She holds a box of soy milk to her chest and looks as earnest as any twenty-two year old talking about blind dates and possibilities. 

He was young, once. Young and cute, just charming. Now, he’s thirty-six, twenty-one weeks pregnant with a baby he won’t keep, and married to his business. 

“Well,” Jared murmurs, shutting off the water, “there was that time in Austin about five years ago. Nice one night stand. Wham, bam, thank you very much don’t forget your watch from the nightstand.” 

“He’ll pay for dinner.”

“Can I get that in writing?”

“Jared.”

“What if when he knows me, he’s only disappointed?”

“Impossible.”

“You sure?”

“Absolutely.”

“What if I give myself away just to get it given back? Nope. I can’t risk it. You can’t be too careful. Even for a free meal. He could be criminal. He could be colorblind. Some kind of psychopath who masterminded somewhat to find me. He could be less than kind--a total asshole.”

“Or…”

“Or he could be…” Jared closes his eyes for a brief second. “Very nice. Have lovely eyes. And make me laugh.” 

And what would he do with that? What if when he sees this guy, he likes him and the guy knows it? What if he opens up a door and Jared can’t close it? What happens then if his heart is set in motion? He’s not prepared for that, that breaking open. No way. Not at all. Not since that night in Austin and definitely not since the other half of TB&TR left five and a half years ago. 

But still.

He can’t help but hoping…

To find someone to talk to. Someone who likes the way he is. Someone who when he sees him, wants to again.

Thank the universe, a customer appears. And then another. And another. And two more after that. Dollar seventy-five. Two dollars and eighty-five cents. Five dollars flat. Dollar ten. Six dollars and twenty-two cents. Ten fifty. A dollar here and there and here yet again. It’s payroll, supplies, marketing, inventory, legal, accounting, taxes, insurance, rent, investment, scheduling for the next two weeks--everything that Jared will work on in the office and later on, at home, alone, sitting in his armchair, nursing a box of apple juice until one in the morning when it’s all done to his satisfaction or when he finally passes out, whichever one comes first. 

The Bird and The Rifle is the only coffee shop in Middle Road. 

There’s more to Jared than his business. He just can’t remember what.

Well, shit.

He finds the source of the offensive odor in both the cooler and the pallet: old, old milk no longer in a liquid state and two seconds away from Darwinism.

Mara starts her shift by volunteering to pitch both Things That Came From the Deep into the dumpsters and saving the day in the process. Jared makes one round through TB&TR and picks up empty mugs and plates, makes small talk, asks regulars how they’re doing, and invites a good number of folks to attend a free coffee tasting class on Sunday morning. He laughs at a few jokes, makes some of his own, and provides a free refill to a student struggling to finish their final paper for a summer course. Fall semester looms close, a mere three weeks away. Parents and freshmen will descend on Middle Road for orientation and they will all need as much caffeine as possible. 

Jared tries to figure out what he might need, three weeks from now, three months from now, three years from now. 

Thursdays, he works six to three, but he ends up staying until five and leaving with Lana. 

Before she gets into her car and he gets into his, he sighs and runs a hand through his hair. 

“What time and where?” 

 


	2. Chapter 2

The general public loves to romanticize coffee shops.

And yes, maybe Jared is also a little guilty. But how could he not be? He spent three weeks in France touring nothing but a small portion of the seven thousand cafes, bistros, and restaurants--anywhere that served a small cup at a small table on a small street tucked away from tourists, fanny packs, and obnoxious tour guides talking about the Eiffel Tower. 

He took the best from those cafes and melded it into TB&TR over the past six years. 

Still, even TB&TR is no romantic comedy set where the spunky, quirky protagonist looks runway ready while making drinks and the dark, brooding, yet somehow charming love interest stops by everyday and orders the same thing while maintaining careful, attractive eye contact. 

Nope.

Not today.

Something died in the drains.

“Nothing died in the drains,” Jared grumbles, rolling up his sleeve. He puts on a bright yellow glove like a surgeon preparing for intensive surgery. 

Oliver backs away from the drain. “You don’t know that. You’re just gonna stick your hand down there?” 

“I don’t see you volunteering.” 

“Oh my god, at least wear  _ two _ gloves!” 

“It’s not that…” Jared gets close to the drain in the sink they do all their dishes. “...bad.” 

It is. It really, truly is that bad. 

Maybe something did die down there. But they just had an inspection three weeks ago and passed. The Orkin guy, John, who has been their faithful Orkin guy for the past four years, was thorough and compiled his usual list of suggestions. But there wasn’t anything new on that list that Jared and the staff haven’t already been doing. Maybe it’s the plumbing? That doesn’t make sense either. Paul, one of three licensed plumbers in Middle Road, was out here six weeks ago for TB&TR’s bi-annual check up. His wife, Mary, who used to be a health inspector in Brooklyn, made her bi-annual declaration that Jared ran the cleanest food service business she’d ever seen. John, Paul, and Mary had all given their professional, practically Biblical, thumbs up. 

Mara swats at Oliver and shoos him away to the register. There are two sinks they use for dishes--a small one up front and the industrial-sized one in the back. It gets cleaned every night as part of closing duties, and the drains in back and on the floor are cleaned once a week. 

With a prayer to the coffee gods, Jared sticks his hand down the drain. Mara called him in this morning, half an hour into opening, identifying the problem. Although Sanjay had left everything pristine and organized, including the backroom sink, everything flushed down it last night came up again to greet Mara in the morning. Nothing she did cleared it. Jared moved a little slower this morning thanks to obsessive thoughts about Lana’s friend’s single and ready to mingle father that kept him up way past his usual bedtime. 

But he’s wide awake now. 

“I’m gonna throw up after this,” he grumbles, inwardly and outwardly cringing. How the baby isn’t kicking in protest is beyond him. Lucky baby. “I… feel something…” 

“I don’t need details,” Mara says with a shudder. “I’m sorry to call you in.”

“Oh,” Jared weakly laughs, “you know me, always happy to play guess what’s clogging the drains.”

Milk curdles. It’s just a fact of life. If he wasn’t into the coffee business, Jared might make a decent living in the cottage cheese business. 

Mara supervises and hands him one of the long, thin stirrers they use to mix thicker drinks. His belly gets in the way of facing the sink, so he works from the side. He figures that the smell has to be the combination of old milk, syrup, crumbs of food, stale water, and heat, since the air conditioning shuts off after closing. Last night was pretty warm. They sold a lot of iced drinks, not that that helps any of them now. 

The drain emits a sickening gurgle as Jared breaks apart the mystery object lodged inside it. Water, soap, and chunks of milk start to disappear, followed by a gross burping sound as it all flushes down. Jared’s efforts reward him with a clear drain, a damp shirt, a smell that clings to his clothes and his hair, and, most importantly, the proof of the problem. 

“A tennis ball and a brownie,” Jared declares. He sets both items on the dishwasher counter. “We should submit this to the paper.” 

“How the hell does that happen?” Mara stares at the tennis ball and the brownie, which remarkably held up underwater. “What was Sanjay doing last night?” 

Jared shrugs and begins flushing the drain with warm water, soap, and baking soda. Mara can use bleach after. “Whatever happened, the tennis ball got in first, because the brownie was on top. Enough stuff built up until nothing go through.”

“You want me to talk to him?”

“Sure, but just get the story. I’m sure there’s some reason for the tennis ball. Somehow. But yeah, let’s remind everyone that food doesn’t go down the drain. If it’s half-eaten, it should go into the trash.” He likes to give his staff the benefit of the doubt. And there’s no real damage to the drain, the pipes, or the dishwasher. 

“Done. Now get out of here.” 

“I’m going, I’m going. You can finish this up, right?”

“Only if you get your ass out of the way.”

“I don’t know, my ass has gotten pretty big.” He smiles as Mara rolls her eyes. “What? Don’t look at me like that? It’s not  _ that _ big.”

She grabs one of the red buckets from under the sink and fills it halfway with hot water. “You work too much. You should be resting more.”

“You will be rid of me once I hit thirty-some weeks, I promise.”

“So you’re going to work sixty hours every week until then?”

“Mar.”

“What? Is it so bad for someone to care about you? Why is that?” Mara’s voice contains years of lecturing and exhaustive concern. 

Jared washes his hands--twice--and dries them on a clean towel. “It’s not bad, but you know most businesses fail in the first two years…”

“We didn’t.”

“No, but…”

“Just try it.”

“Try what?”

“Caring for yourself the way you would any of us.”

Well, fuck.

Before Jared can even think of a response to that, Lana bursts into the backroom. “Jared! What are you doing here?! Olly told me you were here and I was like, ‘Nah, no way, the man knows he has a hot date tonight, why would he come into work on his day off?’ But. Here. You. ARE.” 

Mara’s expression goes from concerned to shocked. “A date? You didn’t tell me you had a date.”

“It’s a blind date,” Jared quips. “So technically, it’s not really a date. It’s the coordination of two complete strangers sharing a table at some restaurant of random choice.”

“Not just  _ any _ restaurant,” Lana volunteers. “He made reservations at Chuck’s.” 

Jared rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his hair. “Oh, great.”

“What’s wrong with Chuck’s?” Lana takes two steps towards Jared. “And tell me you have an outfit selected. Or you need me to come over and help you? Wear dark blue, you look gorgeous in dark blue. Don’t wear black. Please. Please promise me you won’t wear black.” 

Sighing, Mara starts to deep clean the drain and sink. “He’ll wear black.” 

“No,” Lana gasps. She looks at Jared like they’re on the Titanic, about to sink. “Anything but black!”

Unclogging the sink was more fun than this.

“First, I hate Chuck’s because every time I go there, Chuck burns my steak to a crisp because he doesn’t think pregnant people should eat anything that resembles medium-rare. Second, I always have to sit there and listen to him ramble on about how I should consider carrying meatballs as appetizers to sell here, because oh my god, wouldn’t people just love that? You know what he calls them? Do you even know?”

“...no?” 

“Chuck Balls.”

Mara confirms with a nod. 

“Wouldn’t you love a couple of meaty Chuck Balls with your latte?” Jared takes a step towards his office. “Now, I’m just gonna finish the schedule I started yesterday and then I’m gonna leave.”

“No!” Both Mara and Lana blurt out. 

Lana grabs onto Jared’s arm. “Your date is in six hours, we need to prepare. You can’t just stay here and work and then meet him. That’s barbaric.”

“And,” Mara chimes in, “you stink.” 

There may be some truth to that. 

The double doors to the front open. Oliver pops in and announces that his favorite espresso machine has stopped working.  He replicates the noise it just made. Mara hands her bucket to Lana, who isn’t on the clock yet. 

“But…” Jared tries to point out that Lana hasn’t started and he’s more than capable of fixing the machine. It would only take him ten, fifteen minutes tops. 

Once again in sync, Lana and Mara tell him to get the hell out and go home. 

They tell him he has a date to prepare for.

He sees it more as a night of disappointment and boredom to face. There he’ll be, in six short hours, sitting in Chuck’s uncomfortable booths, eating a charred steak, watching his date awkwardly order and try to have Jared either pay for half of or the whole bill. He’ll sit there for an hour, hour and a half tops, and listen to some guy’s midlife crisis story about moving to Vermont because he needed a change, when in reality, all that changed is the state in which he sits in front of the television and watches sitcoms while nursing cheap beer in his underwear. 

Jared might be a little bitter. 

This is why people romanticize coffee shops. 

And his romantic history--both casual and serious--is exactly why he’d rather spend the night unclogging a thousand drains. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whee! a new chapter! :D i love worldbuilding. that is always my favorite part of new fics. i'm struggling with pain today, so I'm surprised that i was able to write, but super proud of it too. comments are love, and very much appreciated! <3


	3. Chapter 3

Jared was born and raised in San Antonio, Texas. 

He understands what summer is. 

When he moved to Vermont, winter smacked him in the face. 

Winter, to a Texan, means forty to sixty degree days. In Texas, winter never requires more than a sweater. The one time it snowed in San Antonio, school was closed for two days due to the two inch snowfall. 

Two inches of snowfall to a Vermontian? That’s nothing. A dust. A mere mist of snow. Two inches of snow are a complete joke. The average annual snowfall for Vermont makes Texan winters look like a toddler’s temper tantrum: one hundred and twenty-four inches. 

Every single year, the residents of Middle Road somehow dig themselves out of piles of cold, white stuff just to say, “Huh. Not as bad as last year.” It’s never as bad as last year in Vermont.

Activities in Middle Road center around winter weather. Even in the summer, when it’s actually more like the climate in Texas, the ice rink stays open. The ice rink functions as Middle Road’s agora, the center of town talk and gossip, the core of the social infrastructure. Any event or activity worth mentioning or attending take place in the ice rink. Ice hockey. Ice skating. Ice hot potato. Ice serving coffee. 

Yep.

Lean times called for desperate measures. The first year for TB&TR required Jared to reach out to the rink. It wasn’t enough for him to have to trudge through wind, ice, and snow on a daily basis when his brother and extended family were texting him pictures of another eighty degree day in the Lonestar state. It wasn’t enough for him to experience his first winter in Vermont while also trying to get his business off the ground. No. The universe demanded that he also learn how to ice skate.

Ace said it would be fun. 

Take it step by step, he said. It’ll be good exercise, he said. You’ll pick up on it in no time, he said.

Jared fell on his ass so many times within ten minutes of being on the ice that he refused any amorous advances from Ace for a whole week. 

Unfortunately, TB&TR needed the rink to survive. Businesses in Middle Road depend not only on the revenue from tourists, but the revenue from regulars as well. Tourists shell out money and that’s great, but the regulars keep businesses open year-round. Jared does not underestimate the importance of a repeat customer. 

So he went back to the rink without Ace and practiced. 

He practiced until small children no longer offered to show him the ropes, until adults stopped saying, “Bless your heart for trying.” He practiced until he could skate with a cup of coffee in his hand and not spill a single drop. 

When he could prove to Larry and Herbie, owners of The Rink, that he was capable of skating with coffee without scalding himself or anyone else, he pitched an idea. 

Middle Road hosted its first annual Not a Drop ice skating event two weeks later, in the dead of winter. Not a Drop required participants to skate the rink for fifteen minutes, navigating slight obstacles placed on the ice, and return to the judges for evaluation. Whoever had the most coffee by the end, won. 

Naturally, the coffee was supplied by TB&TR.

Jared didn’t win the first year. He didn’t even place in the top three. But receipts went up. Folks loved Not a Drop. And, most importantly, they loved the coffee. 

“Jared,” Herbie says, surprised. He looks Jared up and down for a second. “Didn’t expect to see you here at The Rink today.” 

“Why not? Good day to skate.” Great day to avoid thinking about the past. Ah, avoidance, his old friend.

Herbie wipes down a few blades at the main counter. He opened The Rink in the seventies with Larry, when they discovered that in order to be lifelong hippies, they had to make money. Middle Road was way smaller back then, with only about two thousand people, so they had their pick of real estate. Jared frequently wishes he had been alive to buy back then. The Rink sits square in the center of downtown. Businesses that are older and more established than TB&TR claim their spots around The Rink and see good foot traffic because of it. 

TB&TR isn’t more than two miles from The Rink, but in a snow storm, two miles might as well be two towns over. 

“Well, Jared, I figured you’d be getting ready for a certain something going on tonight.” 

“Who told you.”

“Oh, no one in particular.”

“It was Lana, wasn’t it.”

“Can’t say I remember.”

“So does the whole town know or do I still have some semblance of a personal life?” 

“If you expected a personal life when you moved here, you got the wrong town.”

“Great.” Jared rolls his eyes. He places a five dollar bill on the counter. “Is there anyway you can get it through the grapevine for Chuck not to be as annoying tonight?”

Herbie takes the bill and hands Jared a paper receipt. “We’ve been trying that since the sixties. There’s not a grapevine in the world that can help that man. No megaphone, either. And wait, just a minute.” 

TB&TR wouldn’t have survived its first year without the help of The Rink. Jared has yet to win a Not a Drop challenge, but he’s not aiming to either. 

“You know, everyone in St. Louis said it couldn’t be done.” Herbie motions towards the skating rink. “Two black hippies from St. Louis couldn’t move to Vermont, start their own business, and survive. But here we are. Or at least, I am. Larry’s at home writing a new program or something, but I told his wrinkly ass he better have the laundry done before I get home--anyway. This is my point: whatever you think is so impossible about tonight, maybe it can be done.” 

Jared holds onto his skates, nervously giving them a reassuring squeeze. 

“Thank you. It’s just… It’s not that I think it’s impossible,” he murmurs. “It’s more like I’m tired of the possibility.” 

Herbie shoos him off to the rink. 

Best to skate out all that negativity before his date, Herbie sighs, and gets back to cleaning more skates. “Oh,” Herbie calls out. “And don’t wear black!” 

 

Skating calms Jared. 

He relearns his center of balance every time he steps onto the rink. His weight and the shape of his body change so often, that for the first few minutes he focuses on simply gliding through laps. When he’s not pregnant, he focuses on improving jumps and spins. There isn’t any chance of a gold medal in figure skating in his future, but he can hold his own with Middle Road residents and that’s good enough for him. 

Perhaps one of his biggest accomplishments since moving to Vermont is his ability to skate backwards.

In ten minutes, after a bit of maneuvering, Jared figures out today’s center of balance. He’s been able to skate up until thirty weeks every time. He hopes that stays true this time around. Skating makes him breathe, forces his posture to straighten, and challenges his dexterity. Jared is not the most coordinated person, at least when it comes to walking or moving. He can steam five or six different drinks at a time without a single error. But he is entirely capable of tripping up a set of stairs or walking into walls. 

Deep breaths. 

For a Friday afternoon, The Rink is fairly empty. A class of about ten kids stays on the opposite side of the rink, separated from others by a bright orange foam wall on the ice. Couples and friends skate at their own paces, most of them unhurried and relaxed. Though few, they’re a good mix of people. Jared waves to Mr. Anderson, chats with Nora for a minute, and reassures Crystal that yes, there will be pumpkin spice flavored beverages this year despite Oliver’s threats to hide it all. 

With his balance in-check and community check-in done, Jared makes a sweep around the rink. He skates a little faster and eases into a very simple spin. Loop after loop, backwards, forwards, and side to side, he manages not to think for a good half an hour. If he can’t obtain physical activity through marathon, pornography-worthy sex to clear his head, then ice skating it is. 

He’s been to therapy. It just never worked. If only there was some way to have emotions without feeling them, then his problems would be solved. Unfortunately, no therapist he’s ever seen in Middle Road has figured out how to do that. They all say there’s work involved in therapy. Was Jared paying off Ace’s half of the loan for TB&TR not enough work? Or what about that time he bailed Ace out of a five thousand dollar gambling debt from a casino somewhere in the pit of New Jersey? Or that time Jared celebrated his thirtieth birthday alone and forgotten at a restaurant he hadn’t even picked, just because Ace got invested in a hand at poker that he insisted just couldn’t lose. 

But guess what.

He did lose. 

A royal flush will always win over a full house. 

Jared completes a backwards figure eight and stops with a huff. There he goes, thinking again. What goes does it do him to dredge things up from the past? It’s very simple, if he really wants to think about it: Ace Darrow--but his friends all called him Dare, because dare him to do anything and he’d do it--was a no-good, irresponsible, immature, uncontrollable gambling jerk. 

Well, a voice snips in Jared’s head, if it was so simple, why continue to think about him?

Because.

Because there were so many things Jared had planned and he had planned them with Ace and none of it happened. He wanted it to work. He tried his best, so why wasn’t his best good enough? If all anyone had to do to pass an exam was study, then why weren’t his studies of Ace sufficient to keep them together? 

Was there something different he could have done? 

Ace wasn’t a morning person. Jared was. Still is. So Jared used to get dressed in the dark for his morning shifts, out of courtesy. It just seemed like the nice thing to do for his boyfriend--partner, lover, companion, best friend. 

The move from Texas to Vermont exhausted Jared. It left him nervous about being in a new state, and his only support system, the only person he knew, was Ace. He depended on Ace for everything: navigating Middle Road, survival techniques for weather well under seventy degrees, and basic human interaction. He knew Jared from before The Move. 

It was Ace who suggested Jared have a baby.

Jared skates over to the wall and holds onto it. Ace’s exact words were: “Just have a baby. It’ll give you someone else to nag instead of me for a change.”

Desire to execute a combination spin. Or a camel spin. Or an edge jump.

Anything to make him feel the rush of dizziness and flight on ice. 

But he’s in no shape for any of those. He may be bitter, jaded, and a little bit vindictive still, but he’s not irresponsible or reckless. With a long sigh, Jared leaves the ice and changes back to his usual pair of black boots. Song lyrics try to take over his thoughts on the drive home. He runs through next week’s order in his head while he digs through his closet, searching for something not black to wear. Unsuccessful, he switches gears and undresses. One hot shower before the date and one hot shower after it. 

Routine goes well with coffee. Jared likes familiarity and predictability in his personal life. Those are signs of stability and success. At work, he can afford to keep things interesting. He’s had fall marketing promotions planned since March, so now begins the time to focus on winter. How will he keep regulars coming back? Aside from TB&TR being the only cafe in Middle Road, what will persuade them to leave their homes and sit a spell? How will they know how delicious the new bold roast tastes if all they do is stay inside and drink weak Keurig crap? 

Or, what about more than just coffee? TB&TR carries teas, cocoas, and juices. This year, Jared plans on releasing extra-gourmet hot chocolate. For a dollar fifty more than their regular hot cocoa, this creation won’t be just any mug of winter sustenance. It’ll be practically a bowl of hot chocolate--with the chocolate melted in the moment and mixed into the milk. 

Then generously topped with whipped cream, chocolate sauce, and a single toasted marshmallow. 

Would it be weird if Jared ordered hot chocolate tonight?

Does Chuck even serve warm drinks? 

Jared tugs on a pair of dark wash jeans that still somehow fit. He pairs it with a powder blue button down shirt, rolled up at the sleeves. A scarf completes the outfit and diverts attention from his belly. At least, he thinks it does. It might have the opposite effect. Hopefully, Lana made some mention to her friend’s dad that Jared didn’t just swallow a watermelon. 

What if he’s one of those guys who thinks babies are delivered by storks?

Jared doesn’t assume to know more than most people, but he’s pretty sure that what’s between his legs is definitely not a stork.

Though it might he difficult to make that assessment now, since it’s been about five years since anyone had a view of his non-stork body parts. What if, in this process of not getting any, Jared somehow became a stork?  

He looks in the bathroom mirror and sees someone somewhat nicely dressed staring back at him. Maybe he should have done a closer shave. Maybe he shouldn’t have agreed to this at all. Maybe he should just stay home and have his Plan B become his Plan A: order a ridiculous amount of Chinese food and eat it on the couch while watching seasons three through ten of The Simpsons. Or Futurama. Or King of the Hill. 

Unfortunately, by the time Jared decides to enact Plan B, his body arrives at Chuck’s. 

“How the fuck did I get here?” he mutters, to no one, and puts his car in park. 

Why didn’t he drive to the Chinese restaurant two blocks down instead? 

Maybe because he secretly wants sex. Okay, so it might not be such a big secret. His treasure chest of sex toys doesn’t bring him as much joy as it used to. And he might kill the earth with the amount of batteries he goes through in a month. He can’t keep buying dildos and vibrators and nipple clamps to fill the void in his life. He’s tried. It doesn’t work.

Five years is a long time for a dry spell--and he’s been pregnant three times since then. Life is weird. Life is strange. Life is Jared walking into the restaurant and being greeted by Chuck, who offers to personally escort him to his date’s table. Of course, Chuck has to do so by walking very slowly, talking incessantly all the while about why meatballs and coffee make good partners. 

Jared desperately wants to tell Chuck where exactly he can put those meatballs. 

But if he wants a chance at sex later, he should save making a scene until dessert.

There was that one-night stand, five years back. Jared was in Austin, visiting his brother. He had broken up with Ace six months back and wallowed in despair until Jeff flew him out and forced him to have human interaction. TB&TR had been open for a year and Jared was working sixty to seventy hours a week. So he flew. He stayed in Jeff’s downtown Austin apartment, slept in the guest bedroom, and ate a ton of barbeque. On his last night there, he decided to get trashed; he was signing up for surrogacy in a week. Loans. Bills. Expenses. Win/win. 

And there was this guy.

That should probably be put on Jared’s tombstone. There was this guy.

He was so hot, Jared practically clawed his way through a crowd of both men and women just to have the opportunity to offer to buy him a drink. The guy smiled, like he was shy or something--shy?! With that mouth?!--and said, “No, thank you.” 

Two hours later, Jared made the guy’s hotel headboard bang against the wall louder than a coffee grinder. 

They fucked in a way Jared hadn’t realized he needed to be fucked. 

The guy was not only hung, but he actually understood how to use his cock. And it was a beautiful cock. Not too veiny. Not crooked. Not wrinkly. Just pink, smooth, thick, and especially sensitive right under the crown. Jared blew him like he won a ticket to Disneyland. 

Hours passed like that. It felt like a caffeine rush. 

Jared still remembers the feel of the guy’s hips pounding against his ass, that thick, heavy cock filling him up, the blunt head applying pressure and force over a spot that made Jared see stars and gasp the guy’s name.

“Jensen.” 

Chuck claps Jared on the back. Jared coughs and sputters, swatting Chuck away. He stares at his date, seated at what Chuck refers to as the best table in the house. Jared doesn’t care that his eyes are bug-eyed and his mouth is open like a fish. 

One-night stand Austin guy sits at a table in Chuck’s, in Middle Road, Vermont. 

After they had exhausted each other physically, Jared pitched a crazy idea to the guy: why not continue this? Whatever they had? Because it sure felt good and there hadn’t even been a lot of tequila involved. They could talk more--over the phone, through email, hell, even smoke signals. The point Jared tried to make was that he wanted more. 

And the point Austin guy made in return was that he very much did not want more. He said: it’s not you. It’s me. 

Ri-dic-u-lous.

Jared sits, across from Austin guy, and presents him with a big smile. 

“So,” Jared whistles, at ease in his chair, “guess it really was  _ you _ , not me.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay! an update! now to bed, yay! XD
> 
> comments are love. they are greatly loved and appreciated. <3


	4. Chapter 4

Jensen stares like Jared has just skated naked, surrounded by the entire San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus who also happen to be naked, singing “It’s Raining Men,” holding giant gay pride banners while fireworks go off and waves of confetti and glitter wash over everything. 

Which is to say.

Jensen looks ab-so-fucking-lute-ly  _ shocked _ . 

No smooth, whiskey, gravel voice here. Jensen coughs-squeaks-chokes out, “I had no idea.” 

This is Jared’s chance. Spurn him on a one-night stand, huh? 

“Of course you didn’t,” Jared quips, keeping his voice sharp, light, and sweet. “That was part of our deal, remember? No last names.” He tries to keep the smirking to a minimum, but relishes the way Jensen squirms in his chair. And while he’s noticing details, he helps himself to the view.

Five years have been kind to Jensen. The crinkles around his eyes are a little deeper, and his face isn’t as smooth or clean shaven as it had been that night. And, just as before, Jensen chose a good outfit: a fitted, charcoal button down and slate pants. However, unlike before, Jensen appears unhappy to see Jared. 

“You’re my date.” Jensen’s voice shrinks. His face turns a bright red. Could that be because he sensed Jared thinking about his dick? No. That couldn’t possibly be it. 

“Yep. I’m your date.” 

Jensen looks down at his hands, then at the silverware on the table. Anywhere but directly at Jared. A minute later, after what feels like only the initial silence and awkwardness, he clears his throat, leans in and speaks in a hushed tone. “...what. Uh. What should we do?”

This is nothing like their meeting in Austin. For instance, there is way too little liquor in Jared’s system, which is, unfortunately, not likely to change for another eighteen weeks. 

“Typically, we order food and eat it.” Jared attempts to dial back the sass, but he can’t help it. “We use these utensils here, already provided for us. And, if you’re a really good date, you use that thing there--yep, your napkin.” 

Complete silence arrives at their table and dies over it, smothering everything. If getting rich off of an eternity of stiff, stilted silence made them money, they’d have a monopoly on it right here and now. Jared could pay everyone at TB&TR double for years and still have money leftover. He prepped for boring tonight. But he did not prep for the man who turned him down after mind blowing--and just  _ blowing _ \--sex five years ago with no real good reason. 

Is it weird that Jared masturbates to scenes from that night on a regular basis? 

One look at those lips and Jared decides that nope, it is not weird, at all.

Sounds from the rest of Chuck’s filters into Jared’s attention. No one has been around to take their order yet, possibly because it is way too awkward over here to even think about asking them if they’d like to order Chuck Balls. Glasses clink. Menus creak open. The steady footfalls of waitstaff remind Jared of everyone at TB&TR. Plates land with a gentle thud onto tabletops. Cutlery clatters as napkins open. Jared can almost hear the steaks sizzling on the grill in the kitchen. And if he really listens, he can understand Mauricio, the head chef, telling Chuck, the owner, to get the fuck out of his kitchen and let him work. 

Jensen clears his throat again. Jared should offer him some water, but that might spark more snark. Is Austin dude going to say anything? Is he really that ashamed to be seen in public with Jared? It’s not like Jared is holding up a sign that says, “This guy fucked me really hard in the ass for a few hours five years ago and he’s buying me dinner tonight, so full circle, y’all, full circle.” He  _ could _ be holding up a sign like that, but he forgot his Sharpie at work.

So what gives?

“It’s weird that I have to say this, since you’re staring at the tablecloth, but hi. My eyes are up here. You gonna talk to me or what?” Nice. Play nice. For now. 

Freckled hands flutter for a split second, then settle in Jensen’s lap. Jensen’s jaw visibly tightens--ouch--yet he manages to open his mouth for a reply. “You… you aren’t who I was expecting tonight.” 

Maybe silence was better.

“Well, thanks.You looking for another sap to pull the whole ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ schtick on again? Because we already did that, so at this point, it’d just be repetitive.” 

Finally, some life emerges out of Jensen. Voice dangerously quiet, he snips, “That wasn’t a schtick, and I don’t… I don’t sleep with people like that.” 

“Except you did.”

“Just… that once.”

“Your material is old.”

“What?” 

“Everyone says that they don’t have one nighters and then hey, guess what, they do. You just had the misfortune of actually seeing me again, which by the way, why? Why the hell are you here? Get a little lost or something?” 

“What? Like you’re the first person to move from Texas to Vermont? And no. I don’t do that. There isn’t anything wrong with it, I just… don’t.”

“Except you did. And yes, I am the first and only to ever and will ever move from Texas to Vermont so maybe you should try New Hampshire. I hear they buy bullshit from men going through midlife crises  _ and _ they give you a free steak dinner.” 

Jensen sits across from Jared, his mouth open once again. Jared pours himself a glass of water from the pitcher in the middle of the table and takes a well-deserved sip. 

“Were you always this bitter?” Jensen insists on speaking at a volume so low they might as well be in a silent film. 

With a smile, Jared chirps, “Oh yeah, but now I’m also pregnant.” 

Before Jensen can even try to open that can of worms, Chuck comes over with what might as well be an actual can of worms. He presents them with a complimentary bowl of his Balls, glazed with a top secret teriyaki sauce. Then, he offers Jensen a glass of wine, on the house, of course. 

“I’d also like a drink,” Jared says, then instantly regrets it. 

Chuck laughs, like Jared has just shoved his Balls in his mouth. “Funny, real funny.” He gives Jensen a manly punch on the shoulder. “You gotta watch out for this one.”

“I was serious.”

“What?” Chuck tilts his head. “You mean, about the drink?”

“Are my choices for a beverage suddenly limited to only alcohol? I think I remember, long, long ago, that you happened to serve iced tea.” Jared watches, with great pleasure, Chuck fumble to write their orders down on his notepad and leave. Jensen ordered some kind of dry white wine, a totally inappropriate choice to go with red meat, but whatever. Jared plans to pay for exactly zero dollars and zero cents of this meal. 

The carcass of silence hunkers down at their table again. Jared just wanted a free steak dinner. And maybe some sex. Now that the sex definitely won’t be happening, the best he can hope for is a free steak dinner. But at what emotional cost? 

He vows never to listen to Lana ever again. 

Go on a date, she said. It will be fun, she said. 

Your past will come back to haunt you--she did  _ not _ say. 

“It was only one night,” Jensen says, then instantly, Jared can tell, regrets it. 

Would it be childish if Jared threw a Chuck Ball at Jensen’s face? Or would that be old hat? After all, he kind did have his own balls in Jensen’s face at one point in time. The universe is weird.

Sighing, Jared gets comfortable in his chair. Surprisingly, the baby hasn’t given him much of an issue tonight. He expected kicking or salsa dancing, but the baby had the better idea tonight to just sleep and ignore the world. Jared wishes he would have taken that route. Now, he’s being asked to talk about feelings while a pile of Balls sits on their table. 

“You made that really clear to me back then,” Jared mutters. “And for a long time after when you never called.”

“I couldn’t. I meant what I said then.” 

They know the basics about each other. The basics and just a few random details more that people typically share with other people they plan to never see again. Jared knows that Jensen broke his arm when he was seven years old because he fell from a tree trying to save a cat. The cat jumped down on its own while Jensen screamed bloody murder until his mother heard him. And that was why Jensen went into ranch management, not veterinary sciences. 

He knows that Jensen’s cock twitched whenever Jared smiled. Something about having a thing for dimples. 

He knows that Jensen had just gotten divorced and had gone to the bar under pressure from his ex-wife to get out into the real world again. The only ex that gives advice like that is an ex that stays a friend after the end, so Jared knew that Jensen and his ex-wife were close even after. 

And somehow, that made things incredibly more complicated.

No one says anything until Chuck comes back with their drinks and offers to take their orders. Jared avoids eye contact with Jensen and orders his usual steak done medium rare, with a side of cheesy mashed potatoes, plus a side of green beans. Jensen orders a piece of salmon and grilled asparagus. 

They are definitely not having sex tonight.

To get out of saying anything else while they wait for their food, Jared reaches over and spears a Ball on a toothpick. 

Chuck’s Balls aren’t bad, but they still should never, ever be paired with a latte. 

Silence pulls up a chair to their table and makes itself right at home. No way the San Francisco Gay Men’s Chorus would stick around for this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg i have managed to update after a really stressful and painful weekend! yay! now to curl up with my heating pad and go to sleep. comments are love! <3


	5. Chapter 5

Never, in a million years, did Jared think he'd be sitting across from Austin dude at Chuck’s, with a big pile of Balls between them. 

Jared always thought he'd end up owning his own business. As a kid, he opened lemonade stands and competed with his classmates in selling the most cookies for their field trip fundraisers. His favorite game to play with his brother revolved around opening a bakery and selling--and eating--an infinite amount of baked goods. His passion and affinity for sugar took a slight hit in high school, when taking two baking courses proved that he wasn't meant to execute edible baked goods. Every attempt yielded beautiful, attractive desserts… that tasted disgusting. 

Coffee saved him in more ways than one. 

Though it can't really save him now. Unless he fakes an emergency at TB&TR. Maybe something set on fire. Or the sink exploded. Or they ran out of cups and have to pour coffee into customers’ hands. 

Or maybe Jared just happened to forget he had to wash his hair tonight. Or he could text a few friends and ask them to call with an emergency. Or, he could just tell Jensen that he really doesn't feel like staying--even if it means a free steak dinner. 

Because Jensen isn't talking. 

At all. 

He isn't even making eye contact. 

In fact, he looks like he's about to transform into a human replica of Niagara Falls. He wasn’t like this in bed, during sex or after it. Jared remembers him as quite the talker. Guess that changes when blind dates are actually one-night stands from years ago who once had their mouth on very intimate places. Still. If he leaves, no matter what the excuse, Middle Road isn’t exactly a booming metropolis where chances are slim to none that they’ll ever see each other again. The universe already fucked those chances up while they were a thousand miles apart. 

Is it pity that nags at Jared? Or compassion? How self-righteous does he feel this evening?

“I believe we must have some conversation,” Jared starts, quoting a particular scene from  _ Pride and Prejudice _ . Is Jensen his Mr. Darcy or his Mr. Collins? Is he more of the silent, brooding, angsty, sociopath type or the narrow minded, condescending, chatterbox type? 

Jensen looks up, puzzled by Jared’s statement. 

Mr. Darcy it is. 

Making himself comfortable in his chair, Jared stretches out. Maybe he should have planned this out better. What does he say? Should he ask Jensen if he’s an active Republican? What exactly are the deal breakers here? Pickings are slim in Middle Road; Jared hasn’t had to have deal breakers in a while. 

“So…” Jared drums his fingers on the table. “You left Texas.”

Most people would jump at that olive branch of conversation and start to go on about how they couldn’t believe how expensive it was to move across the country and that everything’s better in Texas--including the weather. But no, Jensen merely nods and continues staring down the space of table in front of him where dinner will be served. 

Jared clears his throat. Fine. Then he has no choice but to talk--and talking has never been his weakness. 

“When I left Texas, the first thing I missed was Whataburger. I go out there once or twice a year to see my brother, and first thing I make him do is stop at one. I dream of those burgers, especially now. This kid likes red meat. Last kid hated it and almost killed me. I went six months without decently digesting a burger or a steak. I hope that kid grows up to be a vegetarian someday, because that was hell. Second thing I missed most was the weather. Not that hundred degree, pits of hell crap in July or August. But that cool sixty or seventy degree type stuff. We get that here, but blink and you miss it. You should try one of Chuck’s Balls. They won't kill you. Well, not right away. But if you're gonna be living here, you should just get it over with and try them. He tends to scale back the harassment once you've tasted his Balls. But hey. You might like them and keep eating his Balls. That's a possibility. He'd personally deliver Balls to your doorstep if he could teleport. Then again, if  _ I _ could teleport, then I’d make it a point never to be around for him to force his Balls on me…” 

If Jared wanted to prove that he is an expert windbag who enjoys mentioning balls, that exertion of his lungs nailed it. 

Chuck appears just in time too, as if summoned. 

“God help you if my steak’s charred,” Jared mumbles, trying to get a look at his plate. 

With a hearty, unasked for laugh, Chuck nudges Jensen yet again. “See? What’d I tell you? Keep an eye on this one. He knows consuming raw meat isn’t good for someone in his condition.” 

“Oh, am I in a ‘family way’ now? Did we suddenly timetravel back to the nineteen fifties?” 

“Steak is just as good well-done.”

“Oh, that’s a bunch of---”

“Here we are, a beautiful plate of salmon.” Chuck barrels through Jared’s elegantly phrased complaints and places Jensen’s plate on the table as if it were pure gold. “I made this myself, so it’s perfectly cooked. Same with the asparagus. Those suckers are hard to get right, but since this is a special occasion…”

Jared blinks. “Special occasion? Did I miss something?”

Chuck bends down towards Jensen. “He’s rough around the edges, maybe like a fixer-upper.” 

“Excuse me?” Jared wills fire and fury to rain down on Chuck. “A fixer upper? I am not a hermit. I’m not some special case…”

“And here we go,” Chuck laughs. “Steak for two. Now.” He claps his hands like a trained seal. “Dig in, you two. Let me know if you need anything. Here. I’ll just light this and add a little ambiance.” 

A single lit candle in the center of their table is not what Jared had in mind in terms of fire and wrath. That's okay though, Jared can make it work. He’ll let the wax build up a bit and throw it in Chuck’s face next time he swings by. 

Silence returns, sensing it has unfinished business at their table. Are they really going to sit here and eat like this? Maybe he should fake an emergency. It might be doing Jensen a favor. Cut him loose now, while it's early, and they can pretend this never happened. Or something. 

“Looks like he charred it.” 

Jared looks up from his plate so fast he might have whiplash. Words?! An observation?! An attempt at communication! Major news! Stop the presses! More exclamation points!!!

“Yeah,” Jared grumbles, playing cool. He stabs his steak with a fork. “I'll char his actual balls later.”

The threat of harming another man’s genitals doesn't seem to faze Jensen. At least, it doesn't stop him talking again. “Uh, well, you wanna switch? I'll take your steak if you don't mind salmon.”

Wow. That's… nice. Maybe Jared should say this out loud. Maybe. 

“It's fine, I'll chew it somehow.” Can Jensen read between the lines? 

“I don't mind. My daughter used to burn fish sticks all the time.” Jensen smiles, just a little, and it disappears quick. “Everything she made was charred on the outside and raw on the inside. It sorta balanced out.”

Eyebrows up, Jared replies, “Your daughter? I didn't know you had… oh wait.” This is Lana’s friend’s dad. Of course he has a daughter. Austin dude didn’t have a daughter. Jensen does. Austin dude and Jensen are the same person. Right. 

Jensen shrugs. He appears to be conflicted. Maybe he's a private person. Or maybe he thinks no one will sleep with him if they know he has a kid. But come on. With that mouth? That jaw line? He could be the father of ten and Jared would still know a list of people willing to shack up for more than just a night. 

Green eyes study the glass of wine on the table. 

“I guess that's not something you share with a… one nighter,” Jared coughs. “How old is your daughter?” He cuts into his steak, deciding to let Jensen enjoy what he ordered. It won't kill Jared to eat one charred steak. And if it does, he knows exactly who to haunt.

“Oh. She's twenty.” 

“Twenty.”

“Yeah.”

Typically, repeating back information works to continue a thread of conversation. It has no effect on Jensen, who pokes at his food. Jared, on the other hand, makes short work of the food around him. When not pregnant, Jared can make a good dent in any buffet or at any restaurant. Eating for two makes him invincible. 

Jared steals a forkful of salmon from Jensen’s plate. “Well, twenty’s a good age. So you must be… what? Forty something?” 

“Ah, forty.” No retaliation or nagging about the stolen food. That’s a plus. 

“You were young.”

“Twenty is not  _ that  _ young.”

“Not that old, either.”

“I guess not.” Jensen looks up. For a second, they make eye contact, and it’s like that bar in Austin all over again. Jared enjoys the crinkles around Jensen’s eyes and the plump outline of those lips; something in Jensen’s eyes says that he ain’t exactly saddened by the view in front of him, either. Is it exciting because it was exciting back then? Or is it exciting because it’s still exciting? 

Jensen’s eyes wander from Jared’s face, down to his throat, chest, and finally, his middle. 

“Are you…” Jensen lowers his voice, like his question might cause a scandal. “Keeping it?” 

Middle Road residents know what Jared does for his second job. They know why he’s pregnant one year and again another, without any children in tow. Full surrogacy pays the most, Jared found out. He carries the fertilized egg from the parents and carries it for them. He is the toaster oven of the process. It’s his job to deliver a happy, healthy baby to full term. His reputation for doing just that has earned him experienced surrogate pay and status. The agency likes him, he likes them, mom and dad like everyone. It’s a great win/win/win. 

Jared runs a hand through his hair. “Uh, no,” he replies, at a normal volume. “It isn’t mine to keep.”

The concept strikes Jensen as odd. Most people have this initial reaction. For Jared, it’s just another explanation he’s memorized since the second trimester of his first pregnancy. He eats and explains, taking pauses to sip at iced tea that he swear Chuck watered down. 

“I’m a surrogate, so at the end of nine months the parents get their kid and I get a check.” 

A frown pulls at Jensen’s mouth. 

“What?” Jared shrugs. “That’s the short of it.” 

“Very short,” Jensen murmurs. He takes a nibble of salmon. “So it’s just a paycheck.” 

Was this the cause of Jensen’s divorce? Jared would like to bet someone, anyone, that it was, because wow. Just wow. Jared continues eating, because he does not waste food ever, but speaks in between bites. “What if I say yes? It is just a paycheck. Because at the end of the day, it is. Do I care about this baby? Sure. I care on a human level. I hope its parents make it happy and give it unconditional love. I hope I can give this couple exactly what they’ve spent thousands of dollars on and countless hours wishing for: a newborn baby, brought into this world in a different but no less special way. No. I’m not cold hearted about it. But I am a professional. This is about getting a new life to where it needs to be--and it does not need to be with me.”

Jared pushes away his plate. He looks over, towards the exit, and rests his hand on top of his belly. Conscious it’s been spoken about, the baby has decided to hibernate. This is good. Jared can feel his blood pressure rising and he needs to focus on breathing. 

He turns back to Jensen, who has decided to give up the charade of eating. 

Handsome, yeah. Good in bed, definitely. Good personality? Five years ago, yes. Now? Field notes point to another direction. 

“I’m sorry,” Jensen blurts out, “that I upset you.” 

An apology? Hold the phone, Mabel. 

“I don’t enjoy being judged,” Jared quips. “It’s no one’s business what I do.” 

Silence brings its baggage--memories, nightmares, broken promises, and a mountain of brutal disappointments. Jared knows his cover the table. He can see Jensen’s in the slump of his shoulders and the vulnerable, exposed shine to his eyes. 

Chuck appears in the corner of Jared’s eye. At level with the table, Jared puts his hand up as a signal to back the fuck off. Somehow, Chuck understands. He scurries off to the kitchen. 

This is depressing. More depressing than another boring date. 

And it’s very clear to Jared that his long shot--at actually having a good time and then wanting to pursue this option into something more--has died all over again, just like in that motel room five years ago. He might have finished a good amount of his dinner, but that carton of butter pecan ice cream in his freezer doesn’t stand a single god damn chance. 

They both put themselves out there tonight. 

But Jensen doesn’t seem to cope with the outcome as well as Jared. 

Sighing, Jared does what he swore never to do again. 

“C’mon,” he says, minding the tone of his voice, switching to his work persona. “I’ll take care of this and then I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. You look like you need one.” 

Jared signals for the check. Chuck brings it over and attempts to--”Just the check,” Jared states. He leaves no room for comment. “Thank you.” 

Chuck means to hand the bill to Jared, but Jensen intercepts in the process. 

“It was my idea,” he counters. “But thank you for offering. I appreciate it.” 

No one has to argue too long with Jared to pay for his meal. “Sure. I can still buy you that cup of coffee. I know a place.”

Signing the receipt, Jensen nods. “Alright. But I don’t think this town has a Starbucks.” 

For the first time during their date, Jared gives a genuine laugh. He runs a hand through his hair again and stands up. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that. Let’s go, before Chuck comes back and tries to pawn leftovers of his Balls on us.”

“...can I get a venti vanilla latte wherever we’re going?”

“Wow,” Jared laughs again. “You really  _ are  _ lost.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> merry christmas! happy holidays! happy saturday! :D
> 
> here you are. lots more awkwardness and a hint of something else. i love these two. they're so freaking awkward. i want to shake jensen and be like TALK, DAMN YOU. then i wanna shake jared and be like STOP TALKING, DAMN YOU. XD
> 
> comments are love! thank you for reading. <3


	6. Chapter 6

Sanjay refuses to make Jensen’s order.

At five foot three, Sanjay grips onto Jared’s arms and looks straight into the windows of his soul to say, in a grave voice, “What if I fuck it up.”

Jared, six foot whatever, lightly places his hands on Sanjay’s arms and looks into his optic spheres to say, in a light voice, “Somehow, Jensen will survive.”

Sanjay glances over at Jensen. “No. What if I fuck up his order and he thinks, ‘What kind of crap coffee shop does this guy run?’ Then you lose his respect. Then he doesn’t call you back. Then I am responsible for ruining your date and you will never date ever again and you’ll always be alone and it will always be my fault.”

Thankfully, there are no customers, except Jensen, in line and within earshot of Sanjay’s dire prediction of the future. 

“Trust me,” Jared replies with certainty, “you couldn’t fuck this date up any more than it’s already been fucked. You’ll be fine. Just pretend he’s a tourist and you’ll never see his face again.”

“His face is too handsome for that,” Sanjay chirps, about to burst into tears. “I can’t risk it. You can’t risk it.”

“You’ve been talking to Lana too much.” Jared sighs and turns to Jensen. “I’ll make you your drink.” Back behind the counter, Jared washes his hands and skips putting on an apron. It wouldn’t fit, anyway. He stands at the register while Sanjay looks on, pretending to stock cups. With a hand on his hip, Jared puts on his customer tone of voice. “So, what can I get you? What’ll it be?” 

Green eyes scan the menu on the back wall. Jared agonizes over the menu every season. He has to consider supply and demand, vendors, shipment, rotation, trends, and food cost. Everything in TB&TR works as part of a larger picture--down to the napkins. It wasn’t enough to just order some napkins. He had to consider from where, why, at what cost, could they do any better, did he print logos on them or not, what material, what was more durable, what color, what size, could there be a price break in bulk? 

“Four dollars for a latte?”

Jared stares at Jensen. Did he just? 

“Five for a large one?” 

Oh. Hell. 

“Don’t worry,” Jared grits out, trying his best to sound cheerful, “I hear if you sleep with the owner, he’ll knock a buck or two off.” 

Jensen blushes. Serves him right. How dare he question the prices. Jared saved money by going with eco-friendly napkins without a logo, but that doesn’t mean he can afford to cut his profit margins elsewhere. The coffee and drinks served at TB&TR are worth the money. 

In a small voice, Jensen murmurs, “Vanilla latte, please.”

Sharpie in hand, Jared marks up the cup and silently judges Jensen on his choice of beverage. Lattes are steady, reliable drinks, often the first one he teaches new baristas. By adding vanilla, Jensen reveals that he enjoys a small thrill from now and then, but nothing too demanding or uncomfortable. He enjoys sweet things in boring moderation. 

“Sanjay, ring me up,” Jared grumbles, reaching down to grab a gallon of milk from the cooler. “Just a large vanilla latte.” 

“You pay for your own drinks?” Look at that, more words from Jensen. 

Don’t mess with anyone capable of steaming liquids to three hundred degrees. Jared’s hands move instinctively. He wipes down the steamer, pours milk into the pitcher, flips up the steamer, sets it down, presses a button, and holds the pitcher at an angle. Using magic and the experience of time, Jared also starts up two shots of espresso. He places a signature TB&TR cup--two pumps of vanilla syrup already added--underneath the espresso pour, and knows exactly when the real fun will happen. Espresso pours out, rich, hot, and dark. He takes the pitcher of milk, steamed to the perfect temperature, and slowly pours into the cup. Towards the end, he takes a silver spoon and adds a dollop of velvet, frothy foam on top. 

“Of course I do,” Jared answers, sleeving the cup and sliding it across the counter. “It’s a drink worth buying.”

Research, effort, and patience went into selecting the right espresso. Too bitter and it would overpower the other elements of a drink. Too weak and it would hide behind other flavor profiles. He wanted something balanced, aged, and smooth. 

He watches Jensen take a sip. 

Jensen’s eyes widen. 

“Told ya,” Jared quips. He turns to Sanjay at the register and hands him six dollars. “Now, tell me why I found a tennis ball in the sink. How did that happen?”

Unburdened by the prospect of making Jensen’s drink, Sanjay launches into an elaborate story about a new customer bringing in a golden retriever and Sanjay was so excited that he ran out from behind the counter and worshipped the puppy. The puppy happened to be half Sanjay’s size and willing to play a game of fetch. His owner dug around in her purse and located a tennis ball. On Sanjay’s third time throwing the tennis ball, it bounced into the kitchen. When he followed after it, it seemingly disappearing into thin air. After a few minutes of searching, Sanjay concluded that the tennis ball might not be such a big deal. 

He just hadn’t counted on the tennis ball being the reason why the sink didn’t quite work when he closed up. It had found a home in the sink. 

Jared smiles and shakes his head. “Yeah, alright. Just take it easy with the cute little doggies. That sink needs to last us a while.” 

With a salute, Sanjay gets back to work. Pepper, a social worker at the high school, waits to order. Jared predicts her order in his head and gives himself a pat on the back when she fulfills the prophecy. She swings over to the end of the counter where Jared and Jensen currently stand, awkward as ever. Her eyes hone in on Jensen--who is not only a newcomer, but a handsome, well-dressed one to boot. Well, she may be interested, but this is still Jared's date, dammit. 

“So,” Jared declares, snapping Jensen out of whatever trance he was stuck in. “Do I make a great latte or do I make a great latte?”

Pepper angles herself into the conversation absolutely no one asked her to be part of. “Hi! Jared, you have got to introduce me.”

“Oh, I would, but I left my office on fire. C’mon, Jensen, you're a volunteer firefighter. Now. I've tried stop, drop, and roll already.” Jared grabs Jensen by the hand and yanks him towards the office. His office. 

Once inside, and after the door closes, Jared heaves a sigh of relief. However, he quickly notices that he has maybe just probably made things even more awkward. What exactly are they supposed to do in here? Why didn't Jared take the chance to flee TB&TR? Should he show Jensen the schedule he's working on? Or ask him to wait a second while he finishes up a few last minute payroll details? Crap. Does he keep any board games in here? No. Not since Sanjay and Lana beat him at Taboo. Why would they play a board game anyway? Shit. Should he talk? 

“It's a nice place,” Jensen murmurs. He holds his vanilla latte the way some people might cradle a baby bird. 

“Thanks,” Jared sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He rearranges papers on his desk. “Took a while to build up. And you know. Get everything together. You ever realize what goes into that cup of coffee? You gotta have the right water. Not just tap water. Filtered. Then you gotta worry about the machines. And there’s beauty in a pour over--where you take a filter and just let it drip. That way, it’s clean, the filter takes out oil and sediment. Plus, the grounds lie evenly and you get the best balance of flavor. You need to understand the ratios involved. You have to get the timing right for the coffee to bloom. Then, the beans. You use crap beans and you’re no better than the Dunkin Donuts shit that gets reheated every hour or that swill they serve at Starbucks that just tastes burnt. Espresso has to be brewed with just the right pressure. It forces almost boiling water through finely ground coffee in about twenty to thirty seconds. You get pressure. A blast of water and crema--it’s beautiful. And just one bad bean can throw all of that off. Not many folks order just a straight shot of espresso, so it’s not a popular order, but it’s the most popular ingredient. I can sell regular coffee all day, but can’t make a large vanilla latte without espresso. You could get espresso ristretto. Espresso macchiato. Or, a gloria, coffee with brandy or rum, very popular in France. Or melange, that’s coffee served with whipped cream or hot milk. Or if you’re in Germany, schlagobers. I can tell you all about the wet process, the dry process, the semi-dry process. Bean classification. Cupping and tasting. Roasting. Single-source origin. Sippable heaven. Think about it though: you have this perfect, handcrafted creation of steamed milk, layers of decadent foam, and espresso that should be bold, rich, and…”

Jensen ends Jared’s sentence for him.

By kissing him. 

It isn’t just any kiss. It’s one of those deep, hungry, nails dragging over nerve endings type of kiss. Vanilla latte hits Jared’s senses at the same time his tongue meets Jensen’s. Techniques for steaming--pulsing, swirling, submerged--match their kisses. Over and over again, their tongues clash, their lips press closer, and their hands explore. 

The scent of quality coffee beans surrounds them, but Jared picks up on the pleasant, spicy notes of Jensen’s cologne. 

Jared’s body becomes a drink on the line. Jensen pours him in a circular motion to mix them up together well. Round and round and round the world goes as somehow, they make it from TB&TR to Jared’s bedroom. 

Pull the espresso shot before steaming the milk. That’s the best strategy for latte art. But if you want a regular espresso, the milk should be steamed beforehand, ready to go. Wait too long and the espresso turns bitter. 

They don’t wait. 

Pitcher. Wand. Foam. Body. 

In loud darkness, Jensen fucks Jared from behind. The headboard slams against the wall. Their hands slip. Moans cut through the air. Fingertips drag over skin. Jared clings to his own set of sheets over his own mattress and focuses on the rough, steady pounding of Jensen’s hips and every single sensation of his cock fucking into him. Fresh. Full. Cream. 

Jensen comes first--tightly wound up, clenching his jaw, slamming into Jared, testing boundaries, demanding more, more, more, and more. 

Heat. Steam. Balanced intensity. Pour milk low and slow.

Twice. Jared comes twice. First, he comes all over the sheets. Second, he comes into Jensen’s tight, firm fist. 

Plenty of cream at the surface. 

Perfect lattes are not impossible. 

Waking up next to Jensen after sex is. He leaves at three in the morning and hardly says a word. Jared scoots back to the middle of his bed and curls up, his hips sore. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yay, an update! i stayed up too late though... no regrets!
> 
> i used to work at starbucks. i never thought that experience would help write gay porn one day. XD
> 
> now i really want a latte. anyway... comments are love! remember, i have a patreon and a tumblr if you'd like to support me outside of AO3. if you enjoy my fics, consider chipping in to buy me an actual latte! :D


	7. Chapter 7

Upset, Jared cleans.

He starts with his sheets, which were the unfortunate victims of his poor life decision to not only have sex with Jensen, but to have sex with Jensen in his own bed. They should have gone to Jensen’s place and Jared should have been the one to leave--not the other way around. 

Instead, Jared got the short end of the stick: a sore ass and stained sheets. 

Would it be awful to throw away the sheets and start fresh? 

But he just bought them last month and they cost more than a pretty penny. He decided to invest in luxurious sheets because of the many things he can still enjoy while pregnant, lounging in bed is one of them. The fact that he has to wash out his come doesn’t bother him. Jensen’s come mixed in there serves as a slap to the face. 

At least the sex was good. 

And he was sober this time. That helped. Though maybe if he were a little less sober, his ass would give him a break. Sighing, Jared decides to wash the sheets and go from there. Maybe they can be salvaged without reminding him of his terrible judgement and weakness for men with strong jaw lines and pouty lips. 

Lord, he might make himself simultaneously laugh and cry. 

Once the sheets make it to the washer, Jared stars on his bathroom. He wonders what, if anything, Jensen noticed. Did he judge Jared’s extensive towel collection hanging on the back of the door? Did he observe that Jared uses toothpaste for sensitive teeth because hello weird new development while pregnant. Did he see the books and magazines near the toilet? Did he pick up one of them and start reading? Did Jensen even use the bathroom?

See. 

This is why they should have gone to Jensen’s place. 

It’d be Jensen stuck with the weight of these questions, haunted and chased by the unknown. 

Halfway through tangoing with the Swifter, Jared hears his phone go off. He debates letting it ring and focusing--completing the mental gymnastics in his head--but he then remembers the time when he did let it ring and it turns out that TB&TR had run out of cups. That was back in the early days of business. If it’s one thing TB&TR will never run out of ever again, it’s cups. 

Anxiety vanishes once he sees the contact picture. 

“What’s wrong?” Jared stands in the middle of his bathroom, wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants and a tank top. “Why are you calling me before noon? Are you dying? Am I dying?”

Jared’s brother laughs, though it sounds more like a cackle. “Hey, sometimes I get curious about these things called ‘mornings.’”

“Sure you do. And all Texans are Democrats.”

“ _ Some _ Texans are.”

“Oh, please,” Jared snorts. “That’s just an old wives’ tale.”

“You at work?” Jeff’s voice has been dramatically deeper than Jared’s since they were teenagers. 

“Not right this minute, but I’m fixin’ to head over in a few hours.”

“What a workaholic, little brother.”

“We can’t all sell fifty dollar cuts of meat now, can we? Some of us have to make do with other less lucrative endeavors.” 

Jeff yawns. “You doing okay? You need money?” 

“That was not a plea for money.”

“You could also say, ‘No thanks, big brother dearest, but I appreciate your generous offer.’” 

“Hey, I asked you if you were dying. That’s love.” With the bathroom floor conquered, Jared moves onto Swifter his bedroom. “But no, I don’t need money. The shop’s doing really well. I’ll be able to give everyone a two bonuses this year.”

In the background, Jared can hear the espresso machine he bought Jeff come to life. That was Jeff’s Christmas present three years ago and it’s still going strong. It’s dependable. Unlike some people. “Wow, normally you’d be going on about the shop still. What’s up? Did someone quit? You sound less caffeinated.” 

The Swifter protests being turned a certain angle. Jared balances the phone on his shoulder and tries to defy physics and plastic. “I’m not caffeinated at all and I hate it.”

“Oh yeah. How’s the baby?” Jeff’s tone includes concern, but no judgement. 

“Fine. This one’s a kicker. The parents should invest in soccer uniforms now.” Jared expects the baby to kick, because sometimes it can sense when Jared talks about it, but nope, nothing. That’s fine. Jared can do without the activity against his bladder for now. 

Jeff rummages around in his fridge, an action made obvious by mumbling off expiration dates. Being a successful butcher in Austin, Texas means he’s rarely home. It also means he is automatically obligated to mail Jared premium steaks at least once a month. 

“You sound…” Jeff opens a container and debates its pungency. “...down.” 

“Maybe,” Jared grumbles. “Maybe a little.” He finishes with the Swifter. Well, not entirely, but his back can’t take anymore. “I slept with this guy last night and I feel like a damn fool.” 

Movement in the background ceases. Jeff’s tone switches on a dime. “He treat you wrong?” 

Technically? Yeah. But butchers have short tempers and Jared doesn’t feel like going into that much detail. “No, I just got my hopes up. You know. Like I do.”

“Hmm.” 

“I’m just… tired.”

“Get some rest.”

“Like it’s so easy.”

“It is. You just like to make shit complicated.” Jeff sips his espresso. “What’s got you irritated about this guy?”

Jared rolls his eyes and sits on the edge of the stripped bed. “You ever wake up the next morning and you’re the idiot stuck with washing the sheets?”

Jeff laughs, though again, it sounds more like a cackle. “That’s gross. And yes. Yes I have.”

“So I’m pissed.” 

“Tell him that.”

“Ugh. You’re no help. If I could just walk up to people and tell them how I feel there would be no point for my anxiety and constant self-doubt.” 

“Wouldn’t that be a shame. Is this someone you’re gonna see again?”

“Not if I can help it.”

“Then get back to chasing polar bears around the North Pole and forget about this guy.”

Could life be that simple? Could he disconnect with Jeff after promising to call more often, finish up cleaning, eat a large breakfast of French toast and whipped cream made from scratch, take a long, long shower, put his hair up in a ponytail, get dressed in civilian clothes, head to TB&TR to check in with everyone and finish up some paperwork in his office, successfully ignore all of Lana’s requests for details, spend an hour without interruption, then walk out to the front to mingle with customers and not at all see Jensen? 

Nope. 

Jared knows all about the solubility of various flavor molecules, dosage, brewing method, extraction, and concentration. He grasps the concept of maintaining a balance of ingredients, temperature, and technique because on one hand he could wind up with nothing more than brown water and on the other he could make pure acidic sludge. This he gets. 

Jensen standing in front of him on a Saturday afternoon holding out a handful of sheet music? 

“Please,” Jensen says, as if standing before a judge, “would you read this?” 

This, he doesn’t get. He faces his options--say something mean or say something mean. Dammit.

He should have asked Jeff for more advice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whee an update! :D 
> 
> jensen is just so freaking awkward, i love it. it's such a change from Photo Op Jensen, who is all calm and confident. this jensen is just a little bean of awkward. 
> 
> i'm off to sleep now, but leave comments! they are love. <3 it makes my day to see comments in my inbox.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> listen to "winter 3" the four seasons by vivaldi, recomposed by max richter.

A multitude of responses begin to form in Jared’s mind. They make their way down to his mouth, like firefighters sliding down poles, eager to get out and strike. Yes. This is it. He’s going to call Jensen out in front of everyone at TB&TR, professionalism be damned! 

He’s even going to take Jeff’s advice and tell him exactly how it felt to wake up this morning and deal with the sheet, his sore ass, and Jensen’s pathetic presence in his life. Sleeping together in Austin for the first time was a gigantic, Texas-sized mistake. But the second time? Last night? Jensen might as well pack his shit up and leave, because Jared is gonna send him back to Texas with an epic tongue lashing--and not the good kind. 

This response, it’s going to be blacker than the blackest coffee. Caffeine can be poison. He’ll concentrate his words into obsidian. Light will not escape. 

And once and for all, Jared will cleanse himself of this entanglement. 

Jensen moves with near supernatural speed. He picks up a navy blue case from beside his feet and pops the locks. Click, click. In one smooth motion, he extracts an object of engrossing peculiarity. It shines. It demands attention, especially once tucked under Jensen’s chin. 

He plays the violin.

With full command of the bow, Jensen extracts the first few enticing sounds of a building movement. Nothing loud. Nothing ostentatious. Pure, sweeping elegance--unrushed, engrossing, and compelling. Notes arise like a colorful mist. The bow rocks back and forth, while long eyelashes rest on freckled cheeks. Gently, the tempo accelerates, like a gust of wind. Engulfing, yet somehow fleeting, the trill of the violin shakes the leaves off the trees in its ephemeral imagery. 

Though only one instrument and one musician play, the bow saws over the strings with such precision, such catapulted majesty, one note echoes as another takes its place. The exquisite placement of rapid, rhythmic notes creates a symphony of ten violins. 

Its conductor sways in time with his expanding creation. 

He applies force--presto--and draws up an irrepressible, evocative, continuous intensity. The change evolves in a gradient of clipping, lively notes to longer, conscious ones which explore, evoke, and crest. Jensen creates a background of frantic, teasing energy and tempers it with the focal point of methodical, electric contemplation. Pure speed. Elusive intimacy. Counterpoints and limitless imagination. Muscles underneath an amber sweater tighten and relax in at an impressive pace, pervaded by urgency. Thick, blunt fingers produce a profound transmission of vibrations and frequencies driven by the fraught need to communicate. 

Harrowing, the bow capitalizes on the tension created between itself and the strings. Tone paintings emerge, striking and crashing. First red. Then violet. Then blue. Blue lasts the longest. The bow acts as a pistol for eviscerating notes, each one puncturing, questioning, doubting. 

This is the sound of anxiety. 

And old pain.

Exposed, those notes sting. They remain in the shadows of more powerful notes. Jensen dips. The bow punctures the air, dynamic, undeniable. 

New variant. Critical mood. Restoration. Lightning and thunder. 

The rush of something clear, cohesive, and new.

Expectation and surprise. Predictable unpredictability. One tempo, two rates of speed; fast for the soloist, slow for the orchestra. Answer exploration--engaging and entrancing humanity. It is all unquenchable, terrifying, supreme development. A battle, a struggle, against that old pain and this new movement. Luculent. Crystalline. Clear. Perfectly balanced. Total commitment to rhapsody, exhilaration, exaltation, frantic, fervent, absolute undoing.

The bow lifts from the strings. The music stops.

All of it remains in Jared’s hands, handwritten. 

Sonic tides of violin strings wash over the dark hardwood floors and infuse themselves with the aroma of expertly brewed coffee. 

Jensen stands straight, shoulders back. He looks directly at Jared, his jaw set, brows determined. Only the sound of the shop’s phone ringing breaks that confidence. Jensen’s face flushes. He looks around, and realizes the scene he has caused.

Jared draws in his first real breath in minutes. 

He can appreciate framework. Blueprints, in a way, of something larger, something underneath the surface that holds promise and potential. He appreciates passion. 

And for once, Jensen let him see a spark of it outside a bedroom setting. 

Jared takes a step forward and initiates the next step--the end to any concert.

He claps.

The folks in TB&TR clap with him. Some even rush over to Jensen, curious, intrigued, caught up in the public performance just gifted to them this Saturday afternoon in Middle Road, Vermont. 

Respectfully, Jared lays down the sheet music on the nearest empty table and walks back to his office. 

He does, however, leave the door open. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhh!!! a second update in a week?! short chapter, but necessarily so. 
> 
> i'm so surprised i wrote this tonight. you see, yesterday/today i was awake for 24 hours straight. i got home from work last night and took my dad to the ER. he said he had some stabbing pain in his chest and wanted to wait it out. i was like NOPE NOT ON MY WATCH, DAD-O. 
> 
> so from 12:30 AM to 10 AM i was in the hospital with him until he got a room. then i came home and crashed like a rock off a cliff. i hadn't slept since when i woke up for work at 10 AM the previous day. T_T
> 
> i got about 4 hours of crap sleep today. so i'm not sure if this chapter is coherent??? you'll forgive me, i hope.
> 
> anyway... i know *nothing* about the violin. but i can tell you that this piece is based off of "winter" from vivaldi's four seasons. so if you want something to listen to during this chapter, listen to that. may i recommend max richter's version. :3
> 
> okay. now. bed. i sleep. <3


	9. Chapter 9

Waste of product remains of the biggest causes of a coffee shop’s demise. 

It doesn’t matter if the coffee shop opens as an independent or chain. If the baristas and the managers can’t figure out how to curb waste, they’re done. For some, it takes time. Could be years, maybe even a decade. But no one is immune to shutting their doors and putting up a sign that haunts every shop owner’s dreams:  _ Thank you for allowing us to serve you these years. We are now closed.  _

Jared printed a closing sign the day before TB&TR officially opened. He keeps it inside the fire-proof safe in his office. This might seem like a paranoid, self-fulfilling prophecy. 

But it’s his firm belief to keep his friends close and his enemies closer. 

He will never put up that sign.

In 2007-2009, Starbucks went through a period where it shuttered hundreds of stores. Its branding machine failed. Traffic plummeted. Store after store after store announced closures, leaving its employees to transfer or take a hike. Twelve thousand people had to either find new jobs on the spot or walk out unemployed. How could an iconic brand take such a steep decline? Jared researched every aspect of Starbucks’ failures. Sure, the recession and the collapse of the housing market played critical factors in the losses reported by many major chains. 

But Starbucks had also shot itself in the foot. 

They had expanded too fast. Many of the underperforming stores it had to close were, at their creation, flippantly chosen in terms of location or convenience. They were too aggressive. Their monopoly backfired. 

Even the CEO admitted that they had evolved from success and creativity to mediocrity and bureaucracy. 

The climb from their downfall was equally important. 

Waste was quickly eliminated, and consistency in beverage quality boosted, with a complete three hour shut-down of 7,000 stores across the country to retrain 135,000 baristas. Not only were they retaught how to make a standard latte, they were also taught the most effective way to use product on-hand. 

TB&TR turns coffee pulp into compost. Local and statewide gardeners buy this compost, the profits which go directly into the community. If Middle Road does well, so does TB&TR. Jared sponsors what he can--anything from their little league teams to the drama club at the high school. 

Some of the pulp Jared sends away to Seattle, where incredibly clever people make it into coffee flour. The takeaway cups TB&TR uses are approved by the Paper Recovery Alliance and Plastics Recovery Group. A friend from his two years at college is working on a cup that contains seeds, so that when thrown away, grows into a plant. Any packaging at TB&TR is recyclable in both material and practice. 

But it’s more than materials. It’s tracking and analyzing waste on and off the floor. How many gallons of milk did they go through today compared to the same day last year? How many syrup bottles did they go through this week as opposed to last week? What might account for any increases or decreases? This is why he performs inventory at least twice a week. If he can’t, Mara can. When an item sells out, they try their best to replace it with something on-hand or extra. 

By reducing food costs and generating revenue, he can pay his employees twelve dollars starting plus tips. 

Not even payroll goes to waste. Jared holds regular TB&TR meetings for the staff to go over new and discuss new methods of monitoring, storage, and recycling. More than sixty percent of their waste last year was organic material--milk, food, and other perishable items. It was Oliver who suggested taking off three underperforming food items and replacing them with one new item. Now, their chocolate croissants are a menu staple. 

It’s taken five years of trial and error to figure out a decent balance of waste/cost of goods/recycling. 

The more Jared thinks back to the awful smell in the pallet the other day, the more it irritates him. 

When Mara finished hauling out the source of the foul odor, she documented ten expired gallons of milk. And they weren’t just a day or two past their prime; they were rancid and curdling. Jared paid for a pallet of materials expecting a certain quality of product. Ten gallons for a shop like TB&TR is a big fucking deal.

So is someone coming into the store to play violin for him.

What the  _ fuck _ was that, anyway? 

Does Jensen think he’s some kind of country bumpkin, easily impressed by some random performance? Yes, Jared was a captive audience member, and yeah, there’s something a little--a lot?--sexy about a man with a strong jaw and firm fingers working a violin. But if Jared wants to be turned on by classical music, he can blast the classical music station from his phone while masturbating in the tub. 

Did Beethoven ever wonder if his listeners, past or future, would have sex to his music? 

And, what Beethoven song would be best for masturbating in the tub? Ode to Joy? 

The baby kicks--finally awake, not a morning person lately, sheesh--and returns Jared to the present. His left hand automatically goes to his middle, and he looks down, as if he will be able to tell by looking if something has gone awry. Another kick follows soon after, and Jared swears he can feel the baby just settle in. Tough cookies, kid. It needs to be packed and ready to go in eighteen weeks--no exceptions. 

A third kick directly to his organs results in a brief spell of nausea and a longer spell of overall animosity. 

This is a perfect storm. 

Jared picks up his cell phone and dials Baynard, whose parents should have written and notarized an apology to their son for A) his name and B) his conservative political views, which he got from them as lifelong Republicans. 

“Jared,” Baynard answers, managing to spew out the most condescending tone ever in the history of conservative white men. And in only the mention of Jared’s name! How extraordinary! “How’s business?” 

Leave it to a Republican to ask about business over Jared’s health, well-being, or status check to see if he’s on fire and in need of assistance. 

The storm of nausea, pain, emotional yuck, and sarcasm create waves that could threaten whales. He rips Baynard a new one for ten minutes. He doesn’t want to hear about whose fault this was. He wants Baynard to fix the problem by delivering replacements free of charge and receiving a credit towards his account. 

A not-employee figure stands in the open doorway to Jared’s office. Jared glances over to make sure it’s not a customer--nope, just his past come to haunt him, but who would have thought it’d bring a violin. 

“Listen,” Jared seethes, leaning over his desk. “Last order, y’all were late. This time, I’ve got ten gallons of milk gone to waste. I couldn’t even use them day of. Your pallet reeked. I lost time and money and patience with you. I’m going to send you pictures of what we all had to smell here, but I can assure you, they won’t smell half as bad as what comes out of your mouth when I shove my boot up your ass.” 

And,  _ click _ .

Jensen stares at Jared, his mouth open in a way that reminds Jared of last night. Dammit. He needs to stop thinking about that. He needs to think with his brain, not his…

“Dick,” Jensen blurts out. He rubs the back of his neck, face a bright red. “I was a dick last night.”

Jared’s eyes go straight for Jensen’s nether-regions. 

Why? Jared asks himself. Why is he like this?

“That’s one way of putting it,” he quips and tosses his phone into a drawer. Baynard keeps calling back. “You could have spared yourself the trouble playing your instrument and just told me that from the start.” As he says, ‘instrument,’ he automatically thinks of Jensen’s dick. 

Jensen somehow catches onto Jared’s lecherous mind, since he can’t stop blushing. He brings his violin case forward and holds it in front of him, somewhat effectively blocking Jared’s view. While he may not be able to glance at it every few seconds, he can still think about it. Or the way those hips were able to move like a god damn gravity-defying gymnast. Some benevolent spirit out there gifted Jensen not only with a cock that would make horses nervous, but the ability to repeatedly thrust his hips forward in a steady, toe-curling rhythm. 

Lord help him.

Standing up, Jared runs a hand through his hair, fully aware of his own ridiculous blushing. 

He should say something. Anything. But the last time he rambled on in his office with Jensen present, it came back to bite him in the ass. Almost literally. It still feels like something bit him in the ass, thanks a lot. 

“I’m not good with words.” Jensen’s voice has none of the confidence possessed by his violin. 

“I know that. But I can’t reliably translate music.” 

Out on the floor, Jared can hear the shop running as usual on a Saturday afternoon. He can even hear a customer ask for cashew milk and Lana gently reply that they don’t carry milk derived from cashews, but how about soy beans? Almonds? 

That’s the third person in the last month to ask for cashew milk. Jared makes a note of it. It quells his anxiety when Lana manages to convey the positive attributes to their particular brand of almond milk and the customer orders their large latte anyway. Maybe he should take a second look at the numbers for ordering a small amount of cashew milk. Or maybe he should put out a customer survey at the register to get a better gauge. Three requests in a month could be a fluke. Does cashew milk have a longer or shorter shelf life than almond or soy? 

He needs to get back to work.

“I need to get back to work,” he states, figuring he might as well say it out loud. 

“You’re upset,” Jensen comments. 

“Yeah, I’m upset. For a lot of reasons. They’re not all about… whatever happened last night.”

“I apologize for that.”

“Don’t,” Jared snaps. “That’s the line we use here when we need to say we’re sorry for a mistake that wasn’t ours. You’re not owning it with, ‘I apologize.’” 

Is he blowing this out of proportion? Yes, on one hand it was one, no, two one-night stands. It’s not like there was a marriage proposal in there somewhere. 

Maybe what hurts the most is knowing that he had that feeling.

That feeling like maybe whatever it was between them would go somewhere. 

And then it didn’t--twice. 

“I’m sorry.” The words tumble out of Jensen’s mouth, out of tempo and off key. “I’m sorry I left, again. I’m sorry I hurt you. But I came here today to try and… make sense of it.”

“Well, you don’t have to. And I’m not about to hand out cookies or gold stars for the attempt at being a decent human being.” Jared takes a step towards the door in an effort to show Jensen out. 

Jensen holds out his violin case like a shield and bows. 

“I’m sorry,” he nearly gasps. “Do you ever get that feeling where no matter what you do you’re just lonely all the time and it feels like nothing or nobody is ever going to help make that go away? Like you put your eggs in one basket, then your basket disappeared and all you’re left with is broken eggs?” He stands straight again, this time his jaw set and eyes wet. “I feel like in all this time since Austin, I’ve just been desperately trying to glue those eggs back together without a basket. Then I meet you here, again, and… you feel… like you could be a basket.” 

It was no small investment to open TB&TR. 

And Ace left anyway. 

So yes, Jared knows what it’s like to feel untethered. Freefalling. Adrift. 

“That’s the first time anyone’s ever called me a basket,” Jared murmurs. He runs a hand through his hair again. “Well, basket without the -case after it, I guess.” 

“I told you,” Jensen sighs. “I’m not good with words. But I’ll try better. You just. Overwhelm me.” 

“Yeah. So folks have told me before. I seem to have that effect on people.”

“It’s not a bad thing.”

“So why’d you leave at two in the morning? Am I so awful? Is it so overwhelmingly repulsive to you to wake up next to me the morning after?” 

“No. You’re not awful. I left because I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.”

“I don’t think anyone does, and yet, they can still function without being complete assholes.”

“I know.” Their eyes meet. “And I have been a complete asshole so far. But I think of you. Often.”

Jared doesn’t know what to say to that. Someone might as well stop the presses and announce it to the world that Jared, for once, doesn’t have a snippy comeback or sarcastic response. He could dig one up, but it wouldn’t hold. Instead, he ends up staring at Jensen. And maybe it’s less staring and more looking at him. 

Any other person and Jared would have tossed them out onto the street and washed his hands of this fiasco. 

So what gives? 

Jensen breaks the silence gently, speaking soft, barely above the volume of a steaming wand. The office smells like coffee and recycled paper. A bouquet of carnations sits on Jared’s desk, a present from Letty at the post office. Someone placed today’s mail in a neat stack beside the arrangement. Jared wishes he had an armchair in his office. Maybe it doesn’t have to be a wish. Maybe he can make it a reality. 

But he’s not about to spend time and effort making something into a reality with another person who isn’t on the same page or even looking in the same direction.

Nope. He’s done with that shit.

Okay, so then, still,  _ why _ ? 

Fuck, he has no fucking clue.

“Are you free for dinner?” Jensen finally lowers his violin case. Confidence returns to his voice. 

“No.” Jared motions towards his desk. “I’m not. And I think I need to get back to it.” 

They both part ways more confused than ever.

But at least Jared doesn’t feel like he’s got a bunch of eggs and no basket. Not anymore, at least. He sits back down in his chair and thinks about the price of cashew milk. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, this took an unexpected turn. hmm. this is way different than the original ending to this chapter i had in mind. i like this better, it's just weird that it turned out this way. 
> 
> but yay, jared.
> 
> sorry, jensen. more groveling necessary. ;P 
> 
> comments are love! especially in chapters like these where it's like wait... what???
> 
> also, gallons of curdling milk really is just awful. i'm so happy i'm no longer a barista.


	10. Chapter 10

Every decision at TB&TR undergoes hours of research, analysis, and overthinking. 

Jared spends his Saturday night as a recluse in his office. He exits only to retrieve some water, a cookie, and another three cookies. Jeff texts him a few pictures of what his Saturday night looks like--downtown Austin complete with a small hoard of attractive people lifting up their frosty beer bottles and chowing down on burgers the size of inner tubes. In between making schedules, counting the safe, working on payroll, and taking inventory of office supplies, he texts Jeff back a series of sentences fueled by jealousy, homesickness, and nausea. 

Too many cookies.

Or, Jared ponders, searching through his desk for any missing snacks, not enough. 

Soy milk stays on the menus of most coffee shops because of its nutrition profile, which is similar to dairy milks. And yes, it’s technically higher in carbs than other non-dairy milks, but it’s also higher in protein and lower in fat. From previous hours of intensive research, Jared knows that no one should chug down a carton of soy milk every day. He keeps it in stock because of its popularity; people consistently ask for it. It tastes great in coffee, dissolves without any grittiness or clumping, and most brands don’t create an aftertaste. Few things are such sure bets as soy milk: relatively inexpensive, accessible, and tasty. 

Almond milk took some time for Jared to integrate into the menu. People asked for it, and Jared listened, but he didn’t rush. Oliver volunteered to help with the trial process. Over two weeks, they discovered that almond milk separates when heated, resulting in a concoction, not a handcrafted beverage. They drove two hours away to the nearest Starbucks and ordered almond milk lattes--plain, no sugar, no syrup, no foam. Two sips and Jared knew Starbucks was going about it all wrong. By heating the almond milk in the same manner as dairy or soy milk, they were serving something incredibly gritty, tasteless, and watery. 

But people kept asking for it. And Jared did like the cost, the shelf life, and the taste of it either lukewarm or chilled. 

Oliver took on the task and perfected what Starbucks couldn’t. He tinkered with one of the steaming wands and the settings of the machine--cursed a few times, thankfully after hours--and voila! They had the capacity to bring almond milk to a slow heat, resulting in hot beverages that knocked it out of the park. Still, Jared recognized the limits to only having one steaming wand that could properly heat it up. He trained everyone how to encourage customers to try almond milk added to coffee, instead of heated for espresso or mocha. 

But cashew milk? 

Milder flavor. Naturally sweeter. Thickness good in lattes. No saturated fats or cholesterol. 

Ah. But it’s pricier. Harder to find. Quality varies from brand to brand by a wide margin. Making it by hand wouldn’t be cheaper because cashews cost more than almonds by the pound--about a dollar or two more depending on what brand/supplier. And making it in-house would cost more in terms of labor, time, and efficiency. A few more barista sites label it as even thinner than almond milk when heated. They’d have to change the settings of the almond milk wand every time. 

Jared writes down these notes in a journal he shares with Oliver about any new or pending additions to the menu. 

Good lord, he could use a beer right now.

With a sigh and a pat to his ever-expanding midsection, Jared decides that he’s toiled enough for one Saturday night. 

What if he had said yes to dinner tonight? Where had Jensen planned on taking him? What might have happened during and after? A repeat of last night? Or maybe something more responsible. Sensible. 

Maybe they could have had an actual date. Like, with Netflix and take out and junk. 

Jared rolls his eyes and stands up. 

No. Nah. Nope. No way. Nuh uh. 

Tis better to have fucked once and moved on, than to have fucked twice and held onto something that wouldn’t work out in the long run and only result in more sore asses and hurt feelings and general sulking and pouting and brooding and burying himself in work on Saturday nights. 

“No,” Jared announces to himself and the baby, the only two people in his office. “No cashew milk and no Jensen.” 

Well. For now. 

He can always change his mind about the cashew milk. 

A knock at the door excites him more than it should. 

The door swings open and Jared tries not to act incredibly disappointed when he sees Sanjay in the doorway. He plasters on a smile. 

Sanjay gives a nervous cough. He’s blushing. “Uh… I’m sorry to interrupt, but he won’t stop. And I tried all the usual methods. But since we’re closing in a few minutes, I figured I should let you know what’s going on. That is, unless you’re too busy? If you are, I’m sorry, I can…” 

“Who won’t stop?” Jared pats Sanjay on the arm. “What’s been going on?” 

Rather than explain, Sanjay decides to show Jared over to the registers. This gives them a perfect view of a musician sitting on a chair, creating music for Jared in the center of TB&TR.

Except, the musician is Trev.

And a violin he does not hold or play. He cradles an accordion so large and so noisy, Jared contemplates going into have his hearing checked because how the  _ fuck _ did he not hear that thing this whole time?!

Jared turns to Sanjay, leaning down to speak. “How long has he been here like this?”

“About half an hour… I begged him to stop. We all did.” 

Several customers have formed a human wall in protest of the agonizing sounds produced by both the accordion and its owner. Mrs. Vitrelli holds a rolled up newspaper in her right hand, and Jared knows from experience that she’s got excellent aim. 

For some reason or another, Jared saves Trev from a newspaper to the throat--yes, to the throat, that’s her signature move--and the rest of the mob. 

He kicks Trev out of TB&TR--accordion, song, and all. 

The mob and Sanjay cheer. Jared accepts a few handshakes and pats on the back. He checks in with Sanjay and assures him he did the right thing by alerting him to the public nuisance that is and will most likely continue to be Trev. He goes through the motions of checking up on things here and there--are the napkin dispensers filled, do they have enough supplies to stay open tomorrow and maybe even the next day, that would be nice. Unlike Mara or Lana, or even Oliver, Sanjay lets Jared fuss over things to get it out of his system.

Twenty minutes before closing time, Jared leaves. 

He walks outside to an accordion-free zone and thinks to himself that he prefers the violin.

Alternative milks present a challenge to most baristas. But Jared and his crew aren’t just any baristas. Good results can be achieved with practice, tenacity, and research. 

But not everyone thinks that way. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm in the middle of grieving. an aunt of mine passed away on wednesday night. i ran back here to this verse for some comfort, escape, and control. i like this chapter. i'm surprised that it practically wrote itself. 
> 
> i'm a cancer survivor, and every time i lose someone to cancer, i just feel... a lot. 
> 
> so it was nice to have this verse and y'all to post for. xo


	11. Chapter 11

There are some moments in Jared’s life that do not revolve around coffee or TB&TR. 

Sometimes, his life revolves around eating junk food all day and watching Pixar movies in the dark with the hood from his hoodie up, only grudgingly getting up to pee only when absolutely necessary.

Because fuck everything.

Fuck his feelings.

Fuck his anxiety.

Fuck his brain for producing both of those things  _ and _ reminding him that life is short. 

How many times have people in his life told him that the clock is ticking? What fucking clock? Will he explode if he doesn’t have a child of his own by a certain date? Why isn’t it possible to be the surrogate and be happy with that? Why does everyone think he forms attachments to the babies he carries? Why does everyone picture the delivery as this really sad, depressing, Lifetime movie experience where he all of a sudden changes his mind and fights to keep the babies? 

No.

Just no.

Instead of people asking that shit, why don’t they offer foot rubs? Or chocolate?

Jared flops onto his back. The living room couch is his best friend today. It understands him and his need to stretch out, occasionally doze off, wake up to stuff his face full of cold pizza rolls or bowls of cereal, and then pass out again. Furniture doesn’t judge. 

Well, except maybe for his bed.

But that motherfucker has always been judgemental. 

Hormones kick in on and off throughout the day, tempting him to go back to bed and add languid masturbation as part of his activities. But then he remembers why he’s sulking. 

So his date turned out to be a bust. A bust and a half. 

Why had he gotten so worked up about it in the first place?

Oh, yeah.

Terrible-heartbreaking-life changing-emotional wound inducing-severe trust issues creating breakup that kept him from truly connecting with anyone for almost six years. Oh,  _ that _ . 

The baby kicks--not once, but three times, like it has a point to make. Maybe it’s tired of pizza rolls. Or maybe it’s sick of Jared’s god damn negativity. What’s his problem? Jeez. It’s not like he went on a blind date and it turned out to be Ace. He wouldn’t have bothered sitting down.

Another kick and Jared takes the damn hint.

He slides off the couch, lands on his hands and knees, and stays on the floor for a minute. Is lying on the floor in a pseudo yoga pose considered one of the hallmarks of a midlife crisis? 

Fifteen minutes and two bathroom breaks later, Jared leaves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> super tiny chapter, but more ahead! thank you for reading. <3
> 
> to find out more about my writing, go to compo67.tumblr.com. :D


	12. Chapter 12

Life tells Jared to go and get himself pizza. 

Maybe even a large pizza.

Definitely stuffed crust. He may add spinach to it, to be healthy, but what is life without pepperoni? Does he get pineapple on one side and spinach on the other? Does the walk from his car to the counter at Gina’s Pizzeria count as cardio? Will the baby mind if he eats a whole order of fried mushrooms and half a large pizza now, then the other half in a few hours? Why is he suddenly so damn hungry? 

Didn’t he just eat? They. Didn’t  _ they _ just eat? Because he sure as hell didn’t act alone when it came to devouring that whole can of Pringles. 

Gina’s Pizzeria opened six months before TB&TR. Unlike TB&TR, Gina fights direct competition with the Pizza Hut two blocks away. It’s tough to convince the college students in Middle Road to pay a few dollars more for better quality pizza. But she’s running a promotion this week aimed at getting students to feed their parents actual good pizza while they’re in town. While Gina rings up a delivery order with one hand and holds the phone with the other, Jared contemplates treating the Sunday night crew at TB&TR to pizza. Maybe then he won’t feel as guilty buying a whole pizza for himself. 

“Oh thank god,” Gina groans, hanging up and immediately throwing herself across the counter towards Jared. She clings to his forearms. Her brown eyes communicate desperation--one Jared is all too familiar with as a small business owner. 

“What happened? What’d you run out of?” 

“Nothing! It’s worse than that!” Gina stands at a whole five feet two and likes to buy clothes from the children’s department at places because it’s cheaper and more durable. But she could also kill a man with a block of cheese. “Tony called off and all I have is Kathy. She’s doing her best, god bless her, but I have ten pizzas ready to go out and she won’t be back for another twenty minutes, oh my god you’re getting big!”

Jared sighs. He places an arm over his stomach, as if that does anything. “I was about to eat a large pizza by myself, thanks.”

“You should! I’m sorry, I hated it when people said how big I looked with Max. It just… I’m not thinking. Can you stay here for a while so I can get these out? Just make sure the gals don’t burn the place down. If they do, you know where the fire extinguishers are.”

Running a coffee shop is kind of like running a pizzeria? Maybe? 

“Uh, why don’t we do that the other way around,” Jared suggests and points to the orders on the counter. “I’ll deliver. You stay here and make me the largest pizza known to man so I can eat it when I get back.” 

Gina embraces Jared over the counter, nearly crushing his rib cage. 

She bags the pizzas in their bright red delivery tents and explains each receipt and the order of deliveries. Should anything happen, he can call. Or send carrier pigeons. Tips are his to keep--no arguing with her. None. 

“I’m gonna make you the  _ best _ pizza,” she promises, reaching to answer the phone again. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

“Sure, I still owe you from that time we ran out of cups. Hey. Easy on the sauce, okay? I keep getting this awful heartburn.”

“You sure you want pizza, then?”

“Uhm, of  _ course _ .” 

 

Jared places two warming tents into his backseat and one in the passenger’s seat. He buckles them in like children. Precious, cheesy, delicious children. After his first delivery, he contemplates stealing a slice from each box. Would anyone notice? Or really care? He wouldn’t care too much if his pizza was missing a slice. But not everyone is as kind and generous as him.

None of the tickets say they’re for Jensen Ackles. Jared checks. Because that would be weird. And then Jared would definitely have to eat a slice or two and slide the box around in his car afterwards so all the toppings got messed up.

Is messing with someone’s pizza petty?

No. He’s entirely justified. 

Despite moving a little slower than usual, Jared makes good time. Professional pizza delivery man he is not, but he manages not to mess up any of his seven out of ten orders so far. A few people recognize him and ask him what the hell kind of universe did they just walk into? Most are college kids who take their pizzas and scurry away, back to their dorm rooms, away from human interaction. 

The baby kicks a few times, especially after getting in and out of the car. Jared pats the top of his belly after the second to last delivery. Soon. Soon they’ll be back home where he can change back into pajamas, put his feet up, cover himself in blankets, and go to town on his glorious pizza. And then he can go to sleep, sated and warm, before the week starts all over again. And tomorrow, he doesn’t have to be at TB&TR until ten in the morning. This gives him plenty of time to maybe even treat himself to breakfast at the diner. Just as long as he doesn't eat too many pancakes like last time. 

Last delivery. 

Large pepperoni and black olive pizza for one Abby Shaw. 

Jared hefts himself out of his car and begins the delivery process. If only delivering babies was as easy as delivering a pizza. 

He double checks the address and walks up to the front door of what looks to be a nice condo. This could be home for a few college students looking to escape the dorms. Or a young family. Or maybe an older, retired couple. Jared likes the flowers planted on either side of the sidewalk leading up to the door. Nice place. He’s never been down this particular street. 

Activate pizza delivery. He rings the doorbell. 

Two pairs of feet can be heard from the outside--thunderous and demanding--followed by peals of laughter. Jared takes a step back from the door just in case. He can appreciate enthusiasm for pizza, but not at the expense of being hit by the door. 

“I’m paying!” Voices from the inside reach outside, only slightly muffled by the door.

“Since when?!”

“Since now! Dad, just let me!”

“Excuse you, but I’m the one with their hand on the door--ha!”

“No fair! You muscled me. Dad. C’mon.” 

Jared thanks his stars for being old enough to know when to let someone else pay the bill. He’ll politely insist once, but after that? Nope. If someone else insists then who is he to piss on an offer? Speaking of, he should get back to Gina’s and use the bathroom. It seems that rolling around on his organs all night isn’t enough for this kid; it’s gotta squash his bladder into submission. 

Finally, the door opens. 

And where there should be an Abby Shaw, is a Jensen Ackles.

Their eyes meet for a second or two--long enough. Jensen gasps and slams the door in Jared’s face. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> falling asleep posting this... i hope it's okay... comments are love <3


	13. Chapter 13

Jared blinks. Once. Twice.

He opens his mouth to let out a thunderous roar for all of Vermont to hear what an asshole Jensen is, and what Jared plans to do to him right after he finishes throwing this pizza in his face. The muscles in his right arm tense up, at the ready. Quick--would it be more painful to receive a pizza box in the face or the pizza itself? Should he open the box or leave it as is? This is all assuming Jensen will open the door after Jared screams revenge. If he doesn’t, should Jared stomp on the pizza? But the pizza didn’t do anything wrong. Oh fuck, he can just toss the pizza onto the doorstep and come back later to egg the place like a real adult.

Except.

Before Jared can do any--or all--of these things, the door opens almost as quickly as it was slammed. 

Jensen stands in the doorway, completely shocked, even though he’s the one who…

“I’m sorry,” he blurts out. “I… I wasn’t expecting to… see you.” 

“So your first instinct is to slam the door?!” Jared hisses and holds the pizza close to his chest, as if protecting its virtue. “Next time you don’t expect to see me, I hope you slam the door on your co…”

“Please.” Jensen interrupts. “I deserve that, I know it. But I didn’t do it on purpose.” 

“Wow, look at you not owning up to your actions.  _ That’s _ new.” With a shove that pushes Jensen backwards a step, Jared delivers the pizza. “There. Take it.” Exit stage fucking right. 

Juggling the pizza, Jensen rushes out onto the driveway after Jared, decked in the most dad jeans to have ever dad jean-ed and a cable knit sweater. It’s chilly, but it’s not cable knit sweater chilly, which irritates Jared even more--for some unknown reason. Then again, he doesn’t have to have a reason. No. Not at all.

“I was… trying to take responsibility just now and last night. How’s anyone supposed to hash things out with you if you just turn away? Jared.” 

“Oh, he knows  _ my  _ name!” Jared stops, turns, and bows. “Well thank you, I’m very flattered that you have been able to attach a name to the ass you’ve screwed in more ways than one.”

Now it’s Jensen’s turn to hold the pizza to his chest as he stops in his tracks. 

“What was it,” he asks, clear and sharp, “that made you this bitter?” 

“Life,” Jared snaps. “It’s called life, Jensen. You know, that thing people participate in while you watch from the side, slipping in whenever you’d like and leaving all the same.”

“You know all the right words for every situation.” Jensen looks down at the pizza box. “And you’re so good with words, you don’t care if anyone isn’t.” 

Ouch.

This wasn’t what Jared had in mind when he offered to help deliver pizzas tonight. 

The baby kicks. 

For the first time in a while, Jared finds no response. No additional commentary. Because he knows he really is that bitter and it’s true that life made him that way. And he hasn’t really wanted to change that. It’s kept him safe. 

Jensen speaks again, this time softer, but just as clear. “I have a point of view in all of this too, and I know I should… say it. Speak it. But you don’t know me… aside from sex. I haven’t played for anyone like that in years. And I didn’t slam the door in your face out of spite.”

What is this? 

What is this between them that makes things so difficult? Why are they both still standing in the driveway?

“Maybe we can’t start over,” Jensen murmurs. “But we could start now.”

Jared doesn’t find a single deep revelation or helpful observation about what the fuck just happened. Well, no, that’s not entirely accurate. 

“Pizza’s getting cold,” he half-grumbles. “You should take it inside.” 

Now who can’t use words.

Wasn’t this all supposed to be some kind of magical fairy tale about a newcomer arriving in town and falling in love with the owner of the local coffee shop? Shouldn’t there be some more descriptions of the aroma of espresso while they wildly make out in the supply room? Or shouldn’t Jared be thinking of drinks to craft for Jensen with cutesy messages written on the cups? And shouldn’t Jensen be wooing Jared by praising his latte-creating abilities and asking to hear the difference between lattes and cappuccinos again? 

Should they have met at Chuck’s, looked into each other’s eyes, and instantly figured things out?

Then shouldn’t also, technically, TB&TR run as smooth as a well-oiled machine? Shouldn’t putting together payroll, renewing licenses and permits, unclogging the drains of old milk and syrup, rotating freezers and supplies, calculating costs and profit margins, developing promotions and products, maintaining morale amongst his employees all while training, managing, creating, tasting, testing, trying… shouldn’t that all be just as easy? 

All he does--all he really does--is make and sell cups of coffee.

It should be easy, then. Just walk right up to an espresso machine, push a few buttons, stick the cup underneath and call yourself just as good as Starbucks.  He should go home every night smelling like freshly roasted coffee beans and mocha--instead of old milk, sanitizer, coffee grounds, and sweat.

It should probably be just as easy as giving birth seems to be in movies.

“I’d like it very much if you joined us,” Jensen offers. “We can microwave this.”

Jared nods. He’ll text Gina in a minute. 

“No microwave,” he answers Jensen, and takes a step towards the front door. “You’ll ruin the crust and I’m not giving any refunds.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm 50/50 on this chapter. i may either scrap it or idk. this is unbeta'ed because i write at odd hours. i kind of like this chapter because it's so imperfect?? does that make sense? 
> 
> feedback here would be awesome. if you have time, i would appreciate some constructive insight. 
> 
> thanks, y'all. <3


	14. Chapter 14

Pro: Following Jensen inside yields excellent views of his ass, despite his unfortunate choice in dad jeans.

Con:  Jared is completely unprepared to meet his daughter.

Jensen and Abby were in the middle of watching Coming to America.

“It’s one of our favorites,” Jensen comments, leading Jared into the kitchen where Abby is already grabbing plates and napkins. “We have good taste in movies, I swear.”

Before Jared can make a comment, Abby walks up to him, hand extended. She smiles, engaged and seemingly pleased by the addition of a third plate. “Hi, I’m Abby. Don’t mind my dad. He doesn’t see Coming to America as the fine cinematic masterpiece that it is.”

“You spend half the movie complaining about it.” Jensen sets the pizza down on a small, round table in the kitchen and slides it onto a large cookie sheet. For having recently moved, the counters and floors are clear of boxes. He slides it into a fancy looking oven and leans against a counter next to Abby.

“Dad, masterpieces earn critique. That’s part of what makes them masterpieces.”

“So a movie in which Samuel L. Jackson holds up a burger shop is a masterpiece worthy of critique?”

Abby rolls her eyes. “Fine, dad. It’s a masterful, poignant commentary on 1980’s black culture in the sense of exploring American and African identities, perceptions of class, and cultural dynamics. There. Jeez. Also, Eddie Murphy was hot.” She turns back to Jared. “It’s nice to meet you."

“Nice to meet you too. Thanks for sharing your Sunday night with me. You’re a student, right?”

While Jensen serves, Abby fixes drinks. Not the strong with a kick kind. The root beer or sweet tea kind. Jared accepts a glass of ice cold, authentic Texas sweet tea. He sweeps away any trace of homesickness before anyone can notice. Abby pours herself the same, while Jensen remains the odd-man out with a bottle of root beer. Jared wonders if he made the choice of root beer because he’s in his daughter’s company or because it’s a personal preference.

“Yep. Full time student. Psychology major, Black Studies minor.”

“How do you like your programs?”

“Ehh, Psych is the same as it is at any other school. Black Studies though, that’s where it gets interesting.”

“Interesting because it’s interesting?”

“Well, yeah,” she laughs. “I think it’s interesting--me and the other five black people in the state of Vermont.”

Jensen hands Abby and Jared plates of oven-heated pizza. His speech slows down whenever he talks to his daughter. It becomes warmer, more substantial, more accented. “I don’t think anyone forced you to pick Vermont for college. You got into Tech and UT.”

“Dad, I’m fine up here. You can land that helicopter any time now.”

“Alright, alright. You’re writing a paper about the movie, right?”

“Yeah, so there’s some point in me complaining. I’m processing.”

“That’s a good way to explain it,” Jared chimes in. “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen it, but I remember SoulGlo.”

“Uh, my dad does an _awesome_ impression of the jingle.”

“I do not.”

“ _Oh_. He does too. It’ll change your life.”

Clearing his throat, Jensen hurriedly motions towards the living room. “We can sit down in, uh, there. In the sitting room. I mean, living room.”

Where are all the boxes? Piles of things to be sorted? When Jared moved into his current apartment, he lived out of his boxes for at least three months. Even now, he still thinks to check phantom boxes for things that go missing. There is not one sign of Jensen moving from one region of the country to another. Did he hire damn good movers? Jared takes notice of everything he can--from the moderately sized flat screen television to the comfortable leather couches to the vibrant watercolor paintings of Texas ranchland hanging on the muted pewter walls. Okay. So Jensen has slightly better taste in decor than he does in jeans.

Jared and Jensen sit on a long couch while Abby plops down on the floor to sit cross-legged near the television. She talks about the Samuel L. Jackson scene as a reinforcement of African power versus American stereotypes.

She has Jensen’s eyes. They light up just like his. But her smile comes easier. Her body language flows as smooth as her speech--open, receptive, engaged.

“You’re trying to figure us out, aren’t you?” Abby quips, smiling sharp. “How we’re related?”

“In a sense,” Jared replies. He takes a bite of pizza.

Abby looks over at Jensen, then back at Jared. “My dad married a black woman and voila, here’s the product.”

“That’s not what I was trying to figure out.” Jared looks at Jensen, eyes narrowed, then looks at Abby. He scratches his chin, deep in thought. “What I can’t figure out is how the hell you’re his child. You’re speaking in actual sentences.”

“That’s the kind of figuring out I like,” she says, her smile much softer. “And I don’t necessarily want to pry into my dad’s personal life, but being a concerned daughter, you wouldn’t happen to be his blind date from the other night, would you?”

The specter of the past shows itself on Jensen’s face--he blushes and chokes on a gulp of root beer.

Satisfied, Jared takes a big bite of pizza and nods. “Mm yep, that’s me. What gave it away? The door slammed in my face?”

With the reflexes of a college student, Abby pauses the movie. She scoots a bit closer to the couch. “You caught him by surprise--trust me.”

“Well, I’m also surprised Lana didn’t tell you my name.”

“Since I’ve lived here for a year and it’s not like this is Manhattan, she didn’t want me to spoil the surprise.”

“Surprise might be an understatement,” Jared snickers and toes Jensen’s foot. “We had a good time though. Maybe next time you see me, you’ll hold the door open.”

Jensen takes a nibble of his pizza and nods, still blushing. Cute. But also a little frustrating. Why is he clamming up now? Can he not take an inside joke? Or, could it be possible, just a little bit possible, that Jared might be a little bit of an ass right now? Tension wedges itself between them on the couch and makes itself comfy. Even the baby senses what’s going on--that Jared might be engaging in asshole-like behavior--and helps the moment by kicking.

Abby stands up with an empty plate in her hands. She reaches out for Jared’s. “I’m gonna be smooth like peanut butter and spend a few minutes getting more pizza. Can I get you another slice or two?”

“Oh, sure. Thank you.”

Before she leaves the room, Abby pats Jensen’s hand. “Don’t be Semmi slamming the door in the face of Oha, dad.”

She leaves and tension socks them both in the shoulders.

All Jared can think to do is clear his throat. He fidgets in his seat and runs a hand through his hair. Come to think of it, he does remember a scene where Arsenio Hall’s character screams and slams the door on James Earl Jones’ royal entourage. At least Jensen didn’t scream. And there isn’t any kind of royalty involved. Not that Jared knows.

“I really didn’t mean to slam the door,” Jensen murmurs. He sets down his plate on the coffee table and turns slightly to face Jared.

Jared nods. “I can see that now. I don’t think you’d mean to do that and then introduce me to your daughter.”

“No. I mean. She’s… incredibly important to me.”

“I would assume so.”

“I moved here to be closer to her. So we could have pizza and watch Eddie Murphy movies whenever she had time.”

“Must have been tough living in Texas and having her here.”

“Yes. I mean, I’m trying not to be _that_ kind of parent.”

“The helicopter kind.”

“Right.”

“Do you think you’re the helicopter kind?”

A smile appears, which makes the crinkles around Jensen’s eyes visit for a bewitching spell. “If I’m honest with myself? Yes. And I’m not entirely sorry about it. Not yet.”

“Oh yeah.” Jared finds himself smiling too. “Just wait until your first winter here. You’ll have plenty of time to regret following her up here by then.”

There’s no doubting that Jensen is handsome. Even with the dad jeans. But he’s got incredibly kind eyes. That might count for more than the firm jaw and pouty lips. And maybe more than the physical skills so far displayed in other areas. Could this be Jared’s cold, dead heart beginning to thaw? Or the start of wicked heartburn?

Jensen’s body language opens up. He places his left hand on his thigh, hand splayed, and his right hand on the small space of couch in between him and Jared.

No, no, no.

Get an apology. A real one. One with words. Don’t. No. Oh, no. Don’t reach over and place a hand over Jensen’s. Don’t lean in. Don’t stare into those damn green eyes. Quit acting like a hormonal teenager and start acting like an adult who is fully capable of control and poise. Back this up. Get back to watching Eddie Murphy. Do it. For everyone’s sake. Ignore the shiver caused from their hands touching. Ask for an apology, get some air, and leave. So easy, just--

Jensen kisses Jared.

They suck face like teenage rabbits in the spring. Messy, bitey, and tasting like pizza sauce and cheese.

Real life manifests itself in the form of separating as Abby announces her return from the kitchen. She hands Jensen another bottle of root beer and Jared a fresh plate. She looks at both of them and asks if they want to finish the movie. Jensen insists that yes, they do. Jared agrees.

It seems surreal, but Jared manages to watch the rest of the movie without making a single snarky or sarcastic comment. He laughs because he wants to. He accepts a refill on his tea from Jensen because he wants to. He doesn’t make any comment when Jensen returns and sits a few inches closer to him. He says goodbye to Abby and Jensen shortly after the end of the movie.

He lets it all happen as it happens, which is good. And an hour after he gets home, he opens the front door to his apartment and doesn’t slam the door on the person’s face in surprise. He lets Jensen in, which is good.

Offers him tea or coffee, which is good.

And they have marathon, desperate, rough, needy, fingernail digging into skin kind of sex, which is really, really good.

In the morning, Jared wakes up, groggy, sore, and sticky--and alone, which is not so good.

Until he hears the toilet flush from the bathroom and the faucet run shortly after.

When Jensen come back to Jared’s room, he smiles, sheepish, and mutters something about may he please join Jared back in bed for a few more hours of sleep?

That’s pretty good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YES AN UPDATE!
> 
> i'm so happy to write tonight. i had such a terrible week. i was constantly in pain and depressed and frustrated and just... i hit some really low points. fibro kicked my ass. i have four doctor appointments in the next two days, so let's hope that something positive comes out of all that. 
> 
> it's difficult to stay afloat when i'm having repeated flares. and difficult to concentrate or get into writing. but look! i wrote! and i'm posting! :D
> 
> comments are love, y'all! <3


	15. Chapter 15

Jensen wants to make out in bed.

“Mmkay,” Jared replies, yawning and stretching. “Jus’ a sec.” 

Jared makes Jensen wait a minute. Not to go brush his teeth to avoid any potential morning breath--he’s in his late thirties, worrying about that shit went out the window a long time ago. Not to go and make Jensen coffee or breakfast--again, late thirties, fuck that shit. Not to check his hair or worry about the state of his bed post-marathon sex. 

After one sec becomes two minutes, Jensen peeks over Jared’s shoulder.

“Are you… checking your phone?”

“No.” Jared hefts himself up from bed. He’s aware that his ass probably looks like pink elephants on parade. “I’m using it. Excuse me.” He paces over to a corner of his room and fishes around his armchair for something to throw on since he can’t find his clothes from last night. There was a time when he used his armchair for reading or watching movies; now, it has been relegated to keeper of clothes he can’t bother hanging up or putting away. 

In the middle of putting on a loose turquoise hoodie, Jared freezes when Sanjay answers.

“Hello? Oh, thank goodness. Mister Jared, I…” It has been ages since Sanjay has referred to him as Mister Jared. From the frantic tone of his voice and the formal greeting, Jared knows something is wrong. And not we have no more pennies in the drawer wrong. 

Sanjay provides a desperate account of a coffee shop scorned by a big beast of a man who stormed in and demanded to speak to Jared. When Sanjay attempted to convey that Jared was not there, the man knocked over the tip jar and a few other things at the counter and shouted a bunch of words that Sanjay can barely convey over the phone. 

Within his hoodie, Jared clutches his phone with the same amount of force he clenches his jaw. 

“Listen to me, Sanjay,” Jared barks out, “you did everything right. When I get my hands on that god damn, weasling, bastard, cheap ass mother--I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I won’t swear anymore. Sanjay. Calm down. Where are you?” 

Hands appear on Jared’s shoulders to tug down the hoodie. One of those hands also tugs back the hood. Jared gives a quick smile and mouths a thank you. Jensen nods and stands by. 

“M-Mara told me to sit here.”

“Where’s here?”

“In your office…”

“That’s good. Is the door closed?”

“She closed it.”

“Okay. Look in the top drawer on the right of my desk. There’s chocolate in there. Eat it. I’m on my way over.”

He hangs up and contemplates throwing his phone across the room. But that would probably not help anything  _ and _ make a bad impression on his guest. 

Jared opens his mouth to start a series of possible rambling and explanations. His phone cuts him off. 

“If your ass is planning to come in, I’d save it the trouble of me having to kick it when it gets here,” Mara snaps. “Stay home. I can handle this. The guy left and everyone’s fine.”

“I don’t call one of my employees crying in my office fine,” Jared snaps back. “And I’m gonna punch that motherfucker…”

“Oh, stop. Watch your blood pressure. Sanjay will be okay. I’ll give him the rest of the day off.”

“Can you spare the coverage?”

“So folks will have to wait an extra minute for their drinks. We’ve got it.”

“But.”

“If I see you here, I’m quitting.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“You wanna find out?”

“...no. Please don’t quit.”

“Alright then, don’t come in.”

Conceding to Mara never felt so wrong. Jared reluctantly hangs up. 

His guest waves. “Hey.” 

Jared gives a small smile. “So… how ridiculous do I look right now? Scale of one to ten?” 

Jensen slipped Jared’s shirt on, uncaring that it’s three sizes too big on him and looks more like a dress than a shirt. Heat builds in the small of Jared’s back. No one should look that good in the morning. 

“Ehh.” Jensen shrugs. “Just about an eight, I’d say.”

“Eight’s not bad. Wait until you see my ten. Then you’ll actually have to get dressed.” 

“You don’t stop working, do you?”

“Nope. Something wrong with that?”

“No. Just.. must be exhausting.”

Walking back towards his bed, Jared nods. “Yeah, well, you open a business and compete with Starbucks, Dunkin Donuts, and McDonald’s and see how much rest you get.” He takes the plunge and gets back under the covers. 

“I haven’t been here long,” Jensen says, standing at the edge of the bed, “but I haven’t seen a chain within thirty minutes of here.”

“That’s not by accident or coincidence. You can find a small Starbucks right by the college, and a McDonald’s on the edge of town, but nothing major and we aim to keep it that way. I’m on committees.”

Jensen runs a hand over the pillow he slept on and climbs back into bed alongside Jared. 

For a moment, they sit there, in silence, their feet touching. 

Jared lays back against the headboard and closes his eyes. He takes two deep breaths and pushes TB&TR out of his mind. He has to trust Mara. He has to trust Sanjay. He has to trust himself that later on, he will get his hands on his supplier and sock him back to the Dark Ages where he will hopefully catch the Black Plague. Or maybe smallpox. Smallpox might suit him better. No. Jared shouldn’t go around wishing disease on his enemies. It’s enough to send him to the Dark Ages just to suffer the time of leeching and blood letting. 

“Tell me,” Jared murmurs, eyes still closed, “about something you enjoy.”

He expects to hear something about Texas or violins. 

Instead, Jensen talks about trees.

“At one point, all the trees in New York--back in the 1850’s--were replaced. Uh, you see, they had planted one called ailanthus, which didn’t have the problem of other trees--worms, to be exact. It smelled so strong that no insect would attack it. But it got replaced. People said, ‘Down with the ailanthus!’ The strong smell to detract insects became insufferable. And since it originated in China, people went along with xenophobic attacks. Then the problem was replacing the ailanthus. It had been planted everywhere. All the streets looked mangled and rotten. There was no shade. And it was harder to remove--it flourishes wherever you grow it. You know, we’re surrounded by millions of trees. London planes. Norway maples. Lindens. Callery pears. Ash. Locusts. Red maples. Oaks. Flowering cherries. Few people really understand how critical they are to infrastructure, defining our sense of space, mitigating storm water, cooling the air, and connecting us to nature. My favorite historian said, ‘In trees, we see ourselves. We appreciate the symmetry of human and sylvan life. In the seasons of a tree we find a map of our own lives.’” 

The sheets and blankets grow warm again. 

Jared finds himself leaning towards Jensen, the way a tree might lean towards water. 

Their eyes lock. Jensen licks his lips. “Cityscapes,” he murmurs, his voice low. “Are where we find cathedrals of shade.” 

Under the blankets, they find another cathedral of shade.

Jared pockets these words for later. They might one day connect him to a different season.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to this book "urban landscapes" by jill jonnes for the lovely tree information. :) 
> 
> thanks for waiting on this update! i've been terribly slow at updating because of pain and trying to get through physical therapy. my legs are better, but i'm still working on getting back muscle and strength. i'm also going to start working on my big bang soon, so that may or may not affect updates on WIPs. we'll see. i hope not.
> 
> comments are love!


	16. Chapter 16

Comfortably warm, physically sated from two noteworthy orgasms provided by the man sleeping next to him, Jared basks in his current situation. He hasn’t had so much toe-curling, energetic, exciting, satisfying sex in… it’s probably best not to think about. He could keep Energizer in business with the amount of batteries purchased in a six month span. The last vibrator he bought could, without a doubt, break concrete on its highest setting.

His bed smells like Jensen and sex.

Muscles and nerve endings wonder when they can start up again. When can they convince Jensen to wake up and utilize those firm thighs and chiseled hip bones and talented mouth. 

If they could communicate only via sex, there wouldn’t be awkward moments or misinterpretations. They would be I’ll have what she’s having all the damn time.

Jared’s mind and body float in a pleasant space somewhere between deep sleep and barely awake. And in an ideal world, he would stay there for a little while longer, lingering in the feeling of Jensen’s legs entwined with his or the combined sensation of their body heat. He’d keep sleeping away the day and relaxing as intended.

The baby does not believe in an ideal world.

The baby believes in revenge.

In his first pregnancy, Jared had to constantly reassure himself that sex--solo or partnered--wouldn’t somehow traumatize or damage the baby. In his second pregnancy, he kept having to reassure partners that they wouldn’t somehow traumatize or damage the baby. Maybe Jensen just didn’t feel comfortable asking, but he didn’t require the pregnant people are not delicate flowers spiel. 

Then again, Jensen has slept with a pregnant person before, so maybe he remembers what it was like. Did he want a kid that young? He must have loved his ex-wife a great deal for their relationship to have lasted so long. Or they just put up with each other for two decades. Could have be 50/50. Jensen doesn’t seem to be one to enjoy confrontation. With these pieces of information and constant observation, Jared has been trying to piece together the Jensen he knows now and the one night stand in Austin. 

The process grinds to a halt as Jared’s bladder cries uncle.

Bathroom-- _ now _ . 

What could have continued as a picturesque wake up moment suitable for the most high-quality rom-com dies a horrible, gruesome death. Not only does Jared shoot up from the bed at pregnant person speed, a wave of nausea sweeps through him to join in on the fun. He takes care of the situation by sitting down to pee and throwing up in the bathroom trash can--a great solution be figured out during pregnancy two. What his bathroom floor would have given for him to have figured it out in pregnancy one. 

Jared finishes with the glory and glamour of this baby’s revenge for enjoying NC-17 rated activities. He brushes his teeth, rinses with mouthwash, and contemplates a shower. Maybe he can convince Jensen to join in on the shower. If he isn’t grossed out by the sounds of the human body just yet.

Nope.

Snores emanate from pillows. A pair of feet stick out from the blankets. 

That’s probably for the best. No need to expose Jensen to the reality of bodily functions outside of sex. Not in this moment, anyway. 

After a thorough shower and the donning of pajamas, Jared examines the contents of his fridge. He thinks back to the first few days of opening TB&TR. All he ate was coffee, coffee, and coffee, with some bagels and toast here and there because it was the only solid food he could keep down. There was no way he could have been a surrogate and open a store at the same time. 

Inspired by a carton of strawberries that need to be used, Jared begins hauling ingredients out and onto the counter. As soon as he eats a few strawberries, the baby calms down. The last baby enjoyed oranges. This one is not a fan of too much citrus. Will these preferences follow them later on in life? He thinks of that often and how he’ll never truly know. There are many unknowns in the world, but these are directly tied to him and his DNA. 

Whatever the babies end up liking as they get older, he hopes they have access to them on a regular basis. 

Cutting up the rest of the strawberries, Jared keeps an eye on his phone. He texts Mara and Oliver after measuring the flour, then his brother after breaking the eggs. Where did he put that icing bag? Should he cut the sugar content or go with the usual measurement? 

Jensen knocks on the kitchen doorway, announcing his presence. 

He doesn’t look ready to bolt. That’s good. He put on his shirt and boxers, which look rumpled but comfortable. Of course, anything looks good on Jensen. That’s just how unfair life is.

“You look so grumpy,” Jared laughs. “Is my bed that uncomfortable?”

Trudging forth, stretching, Jensen grumbles, “I’m not a morning person.”

“Not to burst your bubble, but it’s not morning.”

With a snort, Jensen leans against the counter. “I’m not a getting up from sleep kind of person.”

“I usually wake up around five every morning and get to the store by quarter to six.”

“That’s because you don’t know how to rest.”

“Nope--that’s because I know how to hustle.” Jensen stands close, but not close enough to be touching. He doesn’t seem to be the most comfortable hands-on person. But in the bedroom? His hands become like Roman Caesars--conquering everything in their path. Jared bumps their shoulders together to test the waters. Mornings after are usually pretty awkward, but this takes the cake for all the mornings after he’s ever had. One of them is focused on not leaving, the other is focused on worrying if the other will leave. 

“So I’m making crepes. I only have strawberries for filling though. If you ask me for Nutella, I’ll make sure you get a wake up call at five AM sharp for the next year.”

Jensen peers over at the cutting board and mixing bowl. His voice stays soft, slightly gravelly from waking up. “You know how to make crepes? I don’t like Nutella anyway.” 

Jared enjoys his apartment. It has a good amount of square footage for one person--two bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms, and plenty of natural light. And even though most nights he’s too exhausted to cook anything fancy, he finds the kitchen to be a pleasant space. The countertops are wide, gray granite and he paid extra to have a cheerful backsplash set up. When he does get the time and energy to cook something more involved than a grilled cheese sandwich, he has the room and tools to do so.

“Everyone in France knows how to make crepes.” Jared finishes with the strawberries and motions towards the stovetop. “Be a dear and fish out the griddle for me. It’s in the oven.”

“When did you lose your accent? I mean, how long did it take?”

“It ain’t lost. I just don’t use it. It’s not like you’re over there drawlin’ every other word neither.”

Rubbing his chin, Jensen shrugs. “Suppose not. Everyone just sounds different.” He places the circular griddle on the stovetop. 

It is not beyond Jared’s attention to notice the flex of Jensen’s biceps as he lifts the griddle. 

“Did you really move all the way here to be near Abby? Like, was that it?” 

A frown tugs at Jensen’s mouth. “You go right for the tough questions, huh?”

Jared moves closer to the stovetop and starts mixing wet and dry ingredients, except for the eggs. He utilizes a hand mixer right after he quips, “When I’m making breakfast, I do.” 

Once he assembles the batter, and the noise from the mixer stops, Jared pursues the question.

“I mean, there’s not exactly a booming ranch business out here.”

Green eyes focus on how Jared prepares the griddle and pours the first crepe. It’s all in the swirling wrist action. “Actually,” Jensen murmurs, focused on the crepe taking shape, “y’all got a few farms and ranches out here looking for work.”

Few things in the world beat out the scent of a fresh crepe on the griddle. The baby agrees, giving a small kick not directly aimed at his bladder. 

“Fair enough. Vermont ranches then, huh?” 

“Yep.”

“So you’ll be fixing to work at one soon?”

“Probably. I’m not sure.”

Once the edges of the crepe curl, Jared assumes position to flip it. When he was a beginner, he used a spatula. Now, he can rely on practice and physics. Three… two… one...

Jensen’s eyes go wide. Jared smirks. Perfect landing. 

“Getting information out of you is like pulling teeth,” Jared says, preparing the warming plate and towel. “You know I’ll just keep asking, right?” 

Suddenly ten times shyer, Jensen only nods. He inches forward and tilts his chin towards the first finished crepe. “Can I eat that one?” 

“It doesn’t have any filling.”

“That’s okay.”

“You want me to make pancakes instead?”

“No. This is good.”

“But without filling.”

“For now.”

“You’re so weird. Go ahead, knock yourself out. More coming. I’ve got whipped cream already made in the fridge. Wanna grab it?” In an alternate universe, Jared might follow up that question with a remark about how he’d like to grab something else, too. But this doesn’t seem like grab Jensen’s ass time. 

Jensen hands over the canister of whipped cream. “You keep homemade whipped cream on hand?”

“Dude, I own a coffee shop. And the kind of whipped cream you buy at the store is an insult to actual good whipped cream. Try it.” Jared hands the canister back. “Go on.”

Blinking, Jensen looks at the can like it murdered his family. “What?”

“Tilt your head back and go to town.”

“But I just ate that crepe.”

“Yeah, without any filling or anything. So weird. Seriously, you’ve never eaten whipped cream right out of the canister? These babies get me through the last month of pregnancy without murdering someone. Press here.” 

While Jared flips and transfers another crepe, Jensen seals that pretty pink mouth of his over the nozzle and experiences whipped cream heaven.

At some point, Jared manages to finish up with the crepes and add fillings. He shows Jensen how to fold each one. They have their pick of strawberries, whipped cream, and chocolate syrup--another TB&TR staple Jared also keeps at home. Jared fixes himself a mug of tea and makes Jensen a cup of coffee using some fresh grounds and a single coffee filter, also known as a pourover. Even though he stays away from caffeine during surrogacy, Jared keeps fresh coffee around for the smell. It also comes in handy for company. 

Once assembled, Jared leads Jensen over to the living room, where they plop on the largest sofa. Jared balances his plate on his belly.

“Where’d you learn how to make crepes?” Jensen uses a fork and a knife like a decent human being. 

Jared eats with his hands. “France. Spent some time there after college. Only so much you can learn from Starbucks.”

“Do you speak French?”

“Ehh--tres mal. Very bad. Most people in France know English. I got lucky.”

With a mouthful of crepe, Jensen mumbles, “Dommage. J’esperais parler francais avec quelqu’un.” 

The appearance of smooth, perfectly mumbled French makes Jared laugh loud and clear. “Okay, c’mon. You’re just gonna leave it at that? Not even gonna tell me how you know French?”

Jensen finishes one crepe and starts on another. “I took it in college. Kept up with it a bit. We, uh, my ex-wife and I, took care of some horses from a gentleman who spoke more French than English. He was one of our best customers.”

“Neat. Did he move back to France?”

“No. He died.”

And that’s it. That’s all Jensen says. He doesn’t offer anymore explanation or detail, he just munches on his crepe. Jared prepares to ask another question, or maybe a similar question phrased in a different way, but then Jensen beats him to it.

“Are you… do you ever want to have kids of your own?” 

If Jared had a dollar for every time he got that question, he’d have no need to run TB&TR. 

“Nope,” he replies and pats his belly. “No way, no how.”

“I can’t imagine giving up a baby though.”

“It’s not my baby, remember? I’m the toaster oven.”

“You’ve carried it.”

“Yeah, still not mine.”

“Do you ever think about what it’ll be like when it grows up?”

“Sometimes. I do have a heart, Jensen. I do actually care about them. But I try not to get attached. It’s not my kid to raise. I’m just helping out by letting my body do what it can.”

“What got you into being a surrogate?”

People don’t usually think to ask that question. They usually want to know why Jared doesn’t just have his own kids, how much he gets paid, and if he ever has tried to keep the baby at the last minute. The baby moves, sensing that it’s being talked about. 

“I’ll be honest with you,” Jared sighs. He looks at the tiny sliver of crepe left on his plate and pokes at it with his fork. His hips ache in a very pleasant way. “I was in a tough place right before I met you in Austin. My store was a year old and I was struggling. I wouldn’t have minded if I was the only one worrying about money, but I had employees depending on me. You know that feeling. I had the loan on my store, loans from moving here, loans from school, bills, expenses, whatever. Aside from selling a kidney, I couldn’t think of what else to do to make money just to keep from drowning in all that. I’ve had one pregnancy scare my whole life. And I…” He sits back in the couch and looks over at Jensen. “I think a lot of us take that for granted. To me, it was a scare, to some folks it’s what they spend years hoping for. I’m not saying I’m a hundred percent altruistic here. But why not? Why not do it?” 

Silence settles between them. Crepes disappear from their plates. 

Jared takes a deep breath. They’ve come to a grinding halt in their communication. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm exhausted. this week was ugh. but yay 2400 words. thank you for being so patient. comments are love. <3


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> song: "he plays the violin" from the musical 1776. the movie version is <3.

There are about fifty-five thousand coffee shops in the United States. 

This number seems impressive, and when it goes up, it often signals a boom in the industry. Unfortunately, it also means a surge in competition. Every hipster who thinks they can make the perfect cup of vegan, organic, fair-trade coffee opens up a shop and wonders why more people don’t go into the business. 

Then they shutter within the first six months.

But there are plenty of people who do open up shops and not only succeed, but do it well on a consistent and reputable basis. Jared learned from the owners of shops who weren’t afraid to share a few tips and techniques here or there. One of the first tips was to become a morning person. It doesn’t matter if Jared shows up at TB&TR at ten in the morning to work a swing shift; he still wakes up at five thirty sharp and starts his day. The early bird gets the worm.

And since the worm is a steady income for himself and his employees, Jared is all about getting that worm. He never misses an order. He never misses inventory. He never misses appointments with the city council, the health inspector, the business association, the ladies’ club, the seniors’ club, or the local Girl Scout troop whenever they invite him during cookie season.

It’s all part of his business plan for TB&TR. 

He doesn’t just sell coffee. Fuck no. People who just sell coffee might as well slice off their right arm and say that they just have a flesh wound. 

The plan thoroughly describes how TB&TR will establish itself as a community space for the residents and visitors of Middle Road by providing affordable, high-quality coffee and coffee-related beverages. He started with a one and three year plan, then, once they stayed afloat in their second year, he crafted a five and seven year plan. Now in their fifth going on sixth year he can dig into his wildest dreams: a ten year plan.

Except, he should probably finish next week’s schedule. 

And payroll.

And get back to that email from Dee over on 5th who wants to host a luncheon at the end of the week and would it be possible for him to put together a few pots of his best coffee and a selection of pastries? Typically, that’d be a breeze for him to delegate to Mara or Oliver, but she’s hosting board members and investors and specifically requested Jared’s attention to her order.

Cherry scones. Orange scones. Which ones to order from Tarteel? She’s done an excellent job keeping up with TB&TR’s pastry and baked goods demand. It helps that she’s just two blocks away. Maybe he should ask her what she thinks. But then, he’s got to decide on the roasts first. It’d be a huge fucking mess if he paired a dark, bold coffee with a citrus pastry. Or maybe no one would give a shit. But Jared would give not one, but two shits. Another note in his daily planner--make time this afternoon to choose the coffee, then pop over to Tarteel’s and place an order. Dee said ten to fifteen people. Bite-sized pieces of pastry. Eight ounce cups? Too big? Too small? Does he still have those really nice paper ones from February? Or maybe paper cups would be too simple. Glass mugs? Classy as fuck, but he’s hesitant about loaning them out. 

This all goes through Jared’s head hours before he walks into TB&TR.

Shit. He also has to get ahold of Baynard and completely destroy him. Obliterate. Kill, kill, kill.

Who the ever-loving fuck thinks they can not only provide Jared with inferior and late product, but also get away with treating his employees like shit? When Jared finishes, Baynard will be nothing more than a smoking crater in the earth.

Mara meets Jared in his office not two seconds after he arrives.

She closes the door.

“I know that look on your face,” Mara states, crossing her arms over her chest. 

Jared tosses his planner and notebook onto his desk and looks around for a whiteboard marker. “Tough cookies, Mar, this is just my face.” 

“You don’t have to do business with him.”

After crepes, Jensen didn’t volunteer any more information. They sat around and watched an episode of MythBusters--the moon landing one, because that’s the best one ever period end of story--to lighten the mood. But even though Jensen laughed at a few of the tests, he never asked questions or offered his own theories or provide any commentary. Isn’t that what people do when they watch something together? Who watches television and doesn’t talk? 

That, plus his mounting to-do list for the store, plus payroll and scheduling, and now the odious task of interacting with Baynard creates a perfect storm of super crankiness. 

And he can’t find a single god damn whiteboard marker.

Hands behind his head, eyes closed, Jared takes a deep breath before he screams.

“I know that,” he exhales. “But it takes time and effort to find a new supplier and I’d have to talk to Lynette about it and I love Lynette but she’s still a lawyer and I am not asking Baynard to deliver the moon. What I’m asking is simple--for him to do his job.” 

Mar sighs and leans against Jared’s desk. “I’ve been with you since day one. You know what day one you would say?”

Jared tosses his hands up. “Run! Run away! Leave the beans, just run!” 

“No--that’s what you’d say to day one you. You’d say this is just part of the business and you have to roll with it.”

“That was past me,” Jared huffs. “Past me was naive, handsome, and naive. Past me did not have stretch marks on his butt. Honest to god. Stretch marks. On my butt.”

“You poor dear,” Mar deadpans. “Get on the phone and fix the stuff with Baynard or start finding a new supplier. The shop can’t keep taking hits like this and you know it. And I baked Sanjay a cake. You’re welcome.”

There are days when it’s no fun being the boss. Jared grumbles and pouts as he thanks Mar for taking care of Sanjay. He promises swift and decisive action RE: The Supplier Issue. Sitting down, he rubs his belly with one hand and his temple with the other. This has been a volcanic issue from the start. Baynard tried to charge Jared more than what he was charging other folks in the area. When Jared found out, he threatened to take it as a case of discrimination to the city and promised that he wouldn’t stay quiet about it either. Finally, he got a good price for the milk. A few years went by with only incremental increases, nothing major and therefore, they were on good terms. 

But this past year, Baynard’s been sloppy. He likes to think Jared doesn’t live and breathe his shop or look over his invoices or do his own books. And while Jared works with an accountant and Lynette, he’s still involved in anything and everything related to TB&TR. He doesn’t pass off invoicing to Mar and he certainly never skips a payment on a single damn thing.

Baynard’s family has donated more and more money to national and local conservative organizations. And while Jared is no stranger to Republicans or conservatives--hello, Texas--these aren’t organizations that simply share their views and invite others to learn.

These are organizations that try to talk local business owners into hiring the kind of staff that would reflect the good old days. They talk about how Middle Road used to be a community where anyone could leave their car or home unlocked without worry, where kids used to play in the streets, where the god damn ice cream truck probably passed out free popsicles and piles of money because things were so good in The Good Old Days. 

Jared dealt with Citizens for Middle Road twice before TB&TR opened and a handful of times since then. Maybe Baynard’s just being an asshole. Maybe he’s donated a shit ton of money to CMR and feels the need to treat Jared like shit for not giving into their carefully phrased suggestions. Maybe he’s just fucking awful at his job.

Whatever it is, Jared doesn’t appreciate it.

With a pat to Jared’s shoulder, Mar heads back to the floor to help Lana with a rush. Jared looks over at his desk. Notes for cashew milk stick out against all the other chaos. The time he spent researching that last week seems incredibly precious to him now. 

Tired already, Jared puts his head down on his desk and closes his eyes. 

He can wallow in responsibility or do something about shit. 

And since there’s a line of customers and only two people on floor, he decides to get back to the basics. He can’t help out on the floor every single day for very long, but he enjoys the time he does. It brings him back to why he opened TB&TR. 

“Mary, good to see you,” he shouts above the noise of the steaming wand. “Ms. Park, hello, yes I did get the invitation to the baby shower, thank you. I have to keep an eye on this place that day, but I’ll pop in for a bite of cake if you don’t mind. Charlie, Charlie, Charlie. How many times do I have to tell you that Dr. Singer will kill me if I put this many pumps of syrup in your drink? Oh, you meant two pumps, huh? See, it says six here. Oh, Lana must have misheard you, huh? Yeah, yeah, okay. There’s two in here--exactly two. And I better not see you adding any packets into this. It’s perfect as-is. Let yourself taste the coffee.”

Steam. Stir. Pump. Pour. Repeat. 

Hot bar has always been his favorite. It’s where his height pays off. He talks to people over the espresso machines and catches up. As he waits on two sets of shots to finish pulling, he refills cups and lids. Mrs. Farrud tells him about the farmer’s market and how she’s set aside a pile of zucchini for him. Angela chimes in that she’s got fresh tzatziki sauce--the kind made with yogurt, not mayonnaise--and he should swing by her restaurant for it later. Jared laughs and promises that he will, right after work. He wipes down the bar, the counter, and rotates the coolers during a break in which only cold drinks come up. 

This might not be a terrible day after all. 

Making drinks provides him with instant satisfaction and a sense of control. Maybe he can’t fix everything on his to-do list, but he can definitely still make a great latte. 

Hours pass by with only a few hiccups along the way. Jared eats lunch at his desk and finishes the schedule. Then, snacking on a pastry, he finalizes payroll. Since the baby hasn’t rolled all over his internal organs, he rotates a few things in the coolers up front and in back. After the workout, he sits back down and figures out Dee’s luncheon request complete with an invoice and a phone call to Tarteel. 

In his last hour of work, he heads back out to the floor. 

Six in the evening is typically a slow period. Lana works on replating pastries so the case looks full and fresh. Oliver will be here in half an hour to give Lana her last break and work to close. 

Despite his hectic day, a particular someone took up residence in the back of his mind.

Jared wipes down the cold bar, partially because it needs it, but also to have something to do with his hands. 

“So…” He clears his throat. “I’m ready to talk about Jensen.” 

Lana’s eyes light up. She abandons her project and suddenly becomes very interested in refilling cold cups one by one. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to,” she squeals. “But please, please, please tell me you guys are hitting it off?!”

“Hitting it off isn’t exactly how I’d put it.”

“But you met Abby! That’s a good sign!”

“I met her because I was helping Gina out and she happened to order a pizza.”

“Okay, but Jensen was there and he didn’t  _ have _ to invite you in.”

“It wasn’t a calculated meet my daughter thing. It just happened.” A customer comes up. Between Jared on bar and Lana at the register, they knock out the transaction and get back to talking. Jared refills both espresso machines while Lana cleans the steaming wands. He details Jensen’s lack of conversation as especially frustrating. The more he talks about it, the clearer his conclusion becomes.

“I don’t think we’re a good fit,” he says out loud for the first time. “I think we’re just way too different.”

Devastation hits Lana’s expression and tone of voice. “Oh, no.” 

“Yep. Look, sometimes it just doesn’t work.” 

“You can’t just give up like that!” 

“Uh, I can.”

“Ugh,” Lana groans and angrily wipes down the counter. “Ugh!” 

“What?” 

“Everything! I’m trying to figure out how to tell you that I respect your decision and whatever it’s your life and all that bullshit but you’re also making a serious mistake just because something’s not immediately easy as pie.”

“I… uh. Okay.”

“No one says you have to get married on the second date.”

“That would be awful.”

Rag in her hands, Lana sighs. “I’m gonna do it, Jared.”

“Do what?” 

“He plays the violin.”

“So?”

“He tucks it right under his chin.” 

“Oh no.” 

“And he bows. Oh, he bows, for he knows,” Lana sings, her voice clear and light. The rag gets tossed aside as she holds her apron out like a dress. “That it’s heigh, heigh, heigh, diddle diddle.”

Jared snorts, firmly opposed to the song unfolding before his eyes. “Incredible. You’ve turned this into a musical coffee shop. Well, I won’t have it. Lana. I absolutely forbid it.” 

Blatantly ignoring him, Lana swiftly dances circles around him. “Twixt my heart, Tom and his fiddle. My strings are unstrung…”

“No,” Jared laughs and shakes his head. “I will  _ pay _ you to stop.” 

Customers look over. Lana doesn’t care. “Heigh, heigh, heigh, I am undone. I hear his violin and I get that feeling within. And I sigh, oh I sigh.” She takes Jared’s hands and puts the muscles gained from rotating gallons of milk to use. Their movements stay slow. “He drews near. Very near. And it’s heigh, heigh, heigh diddle diddle. And goodbye to the fiddle!” 

“Oh god. What next?”

Lana leads. “We dance! C’mon. One, two, three, one, two, three.” Several customers clap. Mrs. Thompson keeps time with her cane. Jared sighs and gives in. One, two, three, one, two three they make three swoops around until Lana slows them back down and bursts out laughing. “For it was heigh, heigh, heigh diddle diddle. He plays the violin.”

“He plays the violin,” Jared echoes. 

Together, they finish, “He plays the violin.” 

If someone had told him he’d wrap up his shift with a song and dance, he’d have told them to drive ten miles away and make a left to get to the nearest Starbucks. 

He bows to Lana, who curtsies back. “So? What have you learned, boss?” 

“To never hire anyone with a good singing voice.”

“Oh, he  never speaks his passions,” Lana sings back. “He never speaks his views. Whereas other men speak volumes, the man I love is mute.”

“See--you’re proving what I just said.”

“In truth, I can’t recall being wooed with words at all.” 

“Lord, okay, okay. I will go on one more date. Just one.”

“Great!” Lana waves to a customer and heads back to the register. “Because Abby and I have the perfect date night idea for the two of you!” 

That settles it. He’s never hiring anyone with a knowledge of musicals ever again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another update! i think i made jensen play the violin just to use this song in a fic... 
> 
> comments keep me going, thank you for reading!


	18. Chapter 18

The next morning, Jeff calls. 

Jared answers. He was elbow deep in purchase orders and invoices and marketing plans for next quarter. Talking to his brother defeats all of that business in one fell swoop. 

“So?” Jeff moves the phone around. “What happened to calling me more often?”

Checking the time, Jared quips, “My god, another phone call from you before noon. Should I call Guinness Books and alert them now, or do you wanna hold off?” 

“I’ll have you know I have been up since nine.”

“This morning or last night?” 

“Ha ha, little brother. But joke’s on you, I’ve been hella productive.”

Jared smiles into the phone and laughs. “Man, I’ve been up since six, which is technically five your time.”

With a sigh, Jeff whines, “Why? It’s Wednesday. You don’t start until ten. Or are you doing that thing where you work from home and then take work back to work but then you end up bringing it back home to work on because you obviously didn’t work enough at work.”

“...huh?” 

A pang of homesickness hits Jared square in the chest. 

“You doing okay? Were you on a roll with work?” The sound of what is probably a very sharp knife hitting a cutting board accompanies Jeff on the line. “I can call ya later.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I’m good. I was just putting stuff together for Lynette.” 

“Your lawyer?”

“That’s her.”

“What’s in the works? Doesn’t she charge like five hundred bucks an hour?”

Moving a few papers around, Jared nods. “Yep. That’s why I’m trying to be as organized as possible before I see her on Friday. What are you up to? Please tell me you’re at work and not at home covering up murder.”

“Way to give me away to the FBI,” Jeff laughs. “If it makes you feel better, I’m at work. I switched to the bluetooth speaker that Bob got us. We just have to not get blood on it.”

“That sounds reasonable.” 

“You’d think so, but I’m pretty much covered.”

“Gross.”

“You don’t complain when I send you steaks. Speaking of, how would you like to see your handsome older brother this weekend? In-person, no flash photography, please.” 

Jared runs a hand through his hair. He forgets that he tied it back this morning and works to untangle his fingers. Placing Jeff on speaker phone, he resists the urge to cry that yes, he would actually enjoy running away from all problems and responsibilities for once. He could spend the weekend with his brother, eat steak for all three meals, and soak up the South. 

But.

_ But _ . Reality sets in. “I’d love to,” Jared sighs. “But…”

“Oh no, not the but.”

“Yes, the but.”

“The but or the butt?”

“Both, in your case.”

“Little brother…”

It’s no pleasant task to replace suppliers. He has to carefully weigh the pros and cons of this situation and plan for every outcome. Managing food costs and waste has gone so smoothly at TB&TR because he’s had a steady supplier--for the most part. The more he adds up waste totals and inventory numbers from the past eighteen months, the more he realizes he should have realized this a long fucking time ago. When Baynard began to slip in terms of quality and service, he should have ended their contract and taken his business elsewhere.

He finds himself venting to Jeff, pacing around his living room, wearing nothing more than a pair of loose sweatpants and a threadbare UT shirt. To blow off some steam, he went ice skating this morning. But the way his chest heaves while rambling off concerns to Jeff tells him that any relief from stress has worn off by now. 

If he can’t manage his supplier and dictate the level of service he expects, then what the hell kind of business owner is he? If he can’t act, what the fuck is he doing? 

Why didn’t he pay more attention to this as it was happening? 

“Jared,” Jeff snaps, his voice a thunderous clap. “Stop. Y’all need to stop right now and sit the fuck down. Sit. Do it.”

“I’m sitting, I’m sitting,” Jared grumbles. He rubs his belly in an attempt to apologize to the baby for the majestic rollercoaster that is running a full time business while six months pregnant and loaded with hormones and feels. 

All noise in the background from Jeff ceases. Maybe he stepped outside. 

“Jared--Bob has two assistant managers. Two. How many do you have?”

“Mar is technically a lot like an assistant manager.”

“Wrong answer. You got none. None. You run that store all by yourself.”

“I do not,” Jared huffs. “Mara and Oliver help me out way more than they have to. Way more than I pay them for.”

“Chill, little brother. I’m not taking away from your staff. What I’m saying is that you’re the only big cheese decision maker. You’ve had a lot going on and something--realistically--was gonna slip. And this isn’t even entirely on you. Your supplier sounds like a walking piece of shit.” Jeff keeps his voice firm, but concerned. It reminds Jared of all the times when they were teenagers and Jeff lectured him on the importance of not getting caught sneaking out from home at midnight. 

The only person in the world that knows how Jared spent last night--after Lana encouraged him to keep trying with Jensen, after he got home and flopped onto his bed and stared at his phone and flipped through the contacts and found Ace’s number--is the baby.

In fact, all three of the babies he’s had have been the only ones to witness nights like that. 

“I can’t fly out there this weekend,” Jared exhales, eyes closed. “It’s too busy over here.”

He will also be too busy eating takeout and watching Bridget Jones’ Diary when not at work. Between working and moping and wallowing and self-loathing and that round the clock pity party, he simply has no time to devote to other people. Not even his own brother.

The baby kicks. 

Jeff exhales the same way Jared just did. He’s probably also just had his eyes closed for a moment of god help me. 

“You like to make shit so complicated, kiddo. I don’t know how many times I gotta tell you that.”

A sudden urge to break out into ugly crying overwhelms Jared. He keeps his right hand over his belly, for once wishing the baby would kick and he’d really feel it. Fuck. Who needs who more? And how terrible is it to rely on someone so much who isn’t any larger than a grapefruit and totally not even born yet? Instead of texting Jensen like he told Lana he would, all he did last night was conclude--for the millionth time--that he doesn’t have the courage to block Ace’s number.

Blocking it feels too permanent. 

Wow, his emotions are more fucked up than a blended iced coffee blended with the lid off. 

“The struggle with your piece of shit supplier,” Jeff murmurs, “reminds me a lot of your piece of shit ex.”

Well.

There it is.

“I’m busy this weekend,” Jared replies, ignoring the act of blinking back tears. “At the store and… and I have a date.”

Jeff gives a soft yet hearty laugh. “That’s alright. I’ll swing by you. Already bought my tickets so don’t even think about arguing. And a date, huh? So I’ll get to meet him, that’s good. Now, should I take my cleaver  _ and _ my tenderizer? I wonder if he knows that a flat iron steak is adjacent to the heart and under the shoulder blade--and it’s a really easy cut.” 

Jared does a facepalm. 

“Hey,” Jeff adds. “This wouldn’t happen to be a date with the same guy who left you high and dry the morning after, is it?”

“...yes.”

“Good.” A knife meets a chopping block in the background. “I’ll bring the knife I use to bone meat out from a carcass. Hey, remind me, am I two or three inches taller than you?”

Damn it all to hell. Curse observant and protective older brothers--who happen to be skilled butchers. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm kind iffy about this chapter. not sure i like it. feedback would be great. 
> 
> thank you all for being here. <3


	19. Chapter 19

Concentrated caffeine exists. It’s poisonous as hell. 

It requires handling with suitable protective gear. 

Humans developed a resistance to low levels of caffeine purely by accident. Caffeine acts as a neurotoxin in bugs, which makes it a potent natural insecticide. Any bug that dares to chew on tea leaves will soon die. This is the kind of attitude Jared maintains in terms of dating.

And in business.

Anyone who gets close enough should have suitable protective gear.

Friday morning, Lynette wastes no time going through documents with Jared. He brings her two large special blend coffees and an assortment of pastries for herself and her paralegal, Ike. Lynette praises Jared’s organization with his documents. He brushes it off, concealing the fact that he’s spent the last two days putting everything together and endlessly worrying about it. 

With Ike’s assistance, Lynette reads through the contract between Bernard and Jared, which she helped him through and suggested amendments on way back when. She refreshes herself on the finer details and then looks over a few other documents, invoices, statements, pictures of damaged or spoiled product, and inventory counts. Jared included schedules and detailed records of how he had to shift staffing to accommodate orders that weren’t delivered properly, which affected time, money, and flow of the store. Because he had to allocate staff to resolve issues caused by Bernard’s carelessness, he documented how much time it took to move people around and his own time to figure it out.

Lynette writes down a number on a post-it nearby. She taps it with her blue pen and looks up at Jared.

“I’m impressed,” she says, setting down papers. “You spend almost as many hours working as I do.”

“She’s not lying,” Ike chimes in. “Sometimes I wonder why she doesn’t just sleep here.”

“I’m the only black, female lawyer in this town.” Lynette hands papers over to Ike and requests copies. She then takes out two highlighters, one yellow, one orange. “Either I hustle at work or you don’t get a paycheck.”

Ike sighs. “I’m just saying. Maybe being a workaholic isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.”

“You’re talking to the wrong people,” Lynette quips. “I need three copies of each document. Call Terry and ask him if he’s filled out that paperwork I sent over last week. Reschedule with Lavonne. If she says Saturday, tell her Monday, if she says Tuesday, tell her Wednesday. Fax that allowances form to George and reschedule my meeting with Deborah. This is going to take a little while.”

Once Ike leaves her office, Lynette sits back in her chair and looks at the various papers spread out over her desk. She smiles at Jared. “I love what I do and I can tell you do too.” After a sip from her coffee, she adds, “Best coffee in Vermont. They don’t deserve you here.”

Jared tries not to fidget in his chair. “Thank you, you know that means a lot to me. You were there from day one. And I love what I do.” He runs a hand through his hair. “But this asshole makes it a whole lot more difficult to do it. I want to terminate the contract--as soon as possible.”

“I hear you, and you know I got your back. I put clauses in here to protect you in case this happened. But I’m gonna be real with you. Early termination is never easy or simple.”

“I figured.”

“The bright side,” Lynette takes another sip of her coffee, “is that your renewal option is only a year away. We can use that as leverage. I would also love to speak to the employee he harassed, just to strengthen the case against him as a supplier.”

“Sanjay’s shy, but I think he’ll be on board.”

“I can work with shy. I’ll also interview the staff who are directly involved in unpacking orders. These pictures help. From now on, I want you to stop talking on the phone with him and email everything. That way we’ve got a paper trail of communication.”

“Anything you need from me, you’ve got it.”

“Great.” Lynette takes a bite out of a cinnamon swirl pastry. “I need maybe like, two dozen more of these. This is a contract you should make happen. You got anything formal drawn up with Tarteel?”

Jared shakes his head. “Not yet. Can you do that for me? I mean, we haven’t talked about anything long term. I split things with her seventy/thirty.”

“Nice of you.”

“She deserves it. Unlike Bernard, she’s on time, flexible, and open. I’ve been thinking about expanding the bakery items.”

“Why not hire her?”

“Honestly,” Jared exhales. “I just haven’t had the time to go over that. I’d want to give her benefits and pay her appropriately to compensate what she’d lose doing that.”

“I can draw something up in the meantime for the two of you,” she offers. “And then we’ll go from there. You got a new supplier in mind to take over Mr. Asshole?”

“I have a vague idea. Could you help me with that too?”

“I’ll have Ike look into it and send you a list. Now.” She uncaps her yellow highlighter. “Let’s go over the language here and I’ll give you an idea of my plan of attack.”

Jared takes notes. Lynette provides overviews and summaries as they go through each paragraph of the contract. They will have to build a strong case that will justify termination so that the average, reasonable person can conclude that the supplier has breached its obligations. Minor, or even potentially moderate problems, performances, or issues will generally not allow early termination and Jared will be stuck with Bernard for another year and TB&TR will suffer for that. 

Nothing is more important to Jared than his business and the well-being of his staff.

Even if he has to work three hundred hours in a week.

He imagines himself as concentrated caffeine. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you SO much for your patience while i get back to writing! it's been a tough summer. -_-
> 
> i hope this is okay?? i'm doubting and second guessing my writing a lot lately. #writerproblems 
> 
> comments are love and greatly appreciated. <3


	20. Chapter 20

At TB&TR, Mar prepares for this weekend’s deep clean. The entire crew will work from closing time on Saturday at ten to no later than two in the morning. They will work in staggered shifts and Oliver has graciously agreed to help from ten to midnight and open on Sunday morning.

Jared refuses to miss the deep clean. He tells Mar and Lana that argument is futile. His brother will understand and Jared will take Sunday off to rest and make up for the time. That’s the end of that.

Unfortunately, his reign of power in the store only extends so far.

At four, Lana kicks him out. 

She shoves him out the door and chirps, “You don’t want to be late for your date! Just follow my instructions and enjoy!” 

Her so-called instructions are no more than a list of vague directions to their mystery date location. Wherever it is, Jared hopes there are pickles. Pickles and crab rangoons with lots of cream cheese. And a bowl of strawberry ice cream with those cookies that look like straws. 

His mind churns with a mixture of cravings, hopes that Jeff will bring steaks and honey butter, and thoughts from his meeting with Lynette. The baby kicks on and off, pleased with itself and its ability to force Jared into eating half a jar of pickles five minutes before he needs to leave to pick up Jensen. 

Will this kid like pickles later on in life? Or is it just a one-time deal? 

The other two babies should be toddlers by now. 

It’s not like he couldn’t have kids of his own. He could. He could do something similar to what he does for other families and never know the source of the sperm donor. 

But then he would have to take time off from TB&TR. 

He should want that, right? He should want the baby without hesitation. It shouldn’t, in any way, pose as an inconvenience in his life. He should look forward to taking time off and creating room in his life for an extension of himself. 

Standing in front of the open fridge, Jared runs his hand over his belly, fingers splayed. He looks down at the curve of it and smiles at another kick. 

“Finally,” Jared sighs. “We’re in sync. Kick once for no, two for yes. Ready? Okay. Are you happy?” Jared shuts the door of the fridge and sits down at his kitchen table. A minute passes and he starts to think this probably wasn’t such a great idea. 

And now he’s going to be late. 

Hefting himself back up, Jared pauses midway, laughing when he feels two kicks in rapid succession. 

“Okay, okay. Great. I just…” Jared smooths his hand over his belly again. “Wanted to check in, you know? Be a good landlord and all that. And you know, ask that if you can, for the next few hours, lay off my bladder, that’d be great.” 

He gets one kick and nothing else. 

Sighing, Jared pats his middle. He turns his attentions back to his impending date. Lana said casual. Super casual. So he’s taking advantage and wearing stretchy, elastic waist jeans and a large, a black v-neck shirt, and a red flannel shirt over it, unbuttoned and with the sleeves rolled up. He could have taken a quick shower if he hadn’t stopped to eat pickles--no regrets--so he’s stuck smelling like coffee beans and mocha. There are worse things to smell like. He could have been cleaning some of the drains.

Terrible, awful, captivating scenarios play out in Jared’s mind on the drive over to Jensen’s. 

The rest of the afternoon will probably, most likely be awkward. They haven’t texted a whole ton all week, and judging by their record so far, Jared braces himself to navigate a whole sea of uncomfortable silences. So what if they skipped the date part, consequently the awkward part, and just hung out at Jensen’s?

What if, instead of driving to what will probably be another restaurant like Chuck’s--without Chuck’s balls--they chose another set of plans? 

It’s probably, definitely in their best interests to stay at Jensen’s and fuck . 

Is this hormones or can he blame a chiseled jaw line, soft lips, and firm, experienced hands? 

Jared squirms in his seat and almost cries when he thinks about how much of an expert Jensen is at fucking--but woefully unskilled at maintaining a conversation. How is it possible for them to hit it off in bed and only in bed? Could he be overthinking this? But it drives him crazy when Jensen doesn’t respond to things or add commentary or voice his opinion or elaborate an answer or ask a follow up question. What must his ex-wife be like? Is she just as introverted? Did she enable this communication style? 

Can they skip communicating and forfeit all sane, logical thought for the deep, heavy pounding of Jensen’s hips against his? For the sight of that lean, muscular body working, thighs clenching, long lashes resting against his cheeks as he closes his eyes and loses himself in the rhythm of fucking in and out of Jared. For the feel of his cock buried deep but still moving in quick, hard thrusts, filling Jared up entirely--where noise is nothing but their moans and the squelch of lube, sweat, and…

Bad.

“Bad, Jared,” Jared whines, parked in Jensen’s driveway. “My god. I want  _ him _ parked in  _ my _ driveway.”

After a series of groans, whines, and curses, Jared drags himself out of his car and lumbers over to the front door. Great. Now he’s all flushed, half hard, worked up, his nipples could cut diamonds, and incredibly cranky.

“Hi!” Abby answers the door. She motions Jared inside. “Nice to see you again. Dad’s not ready yet so he told me to distract you and tell you all about the dad jokes he pulls.” 

Jared wills himself to keep it together. Keep breathing. Act like he wasn’t thinking about her father on the way here. Nope. Not at all. And especially not in any kind of sexual way.

“I…” Jared clears his throat. “I don’t think he’s told me one yet. It’s nice to see you again too.”

Abby leads Jared into the kitchen, where they sit on barstools at the island. She props her chin up and smiles. “Don’t worry. He can be kinda shy. But it’s only a matter of time before the dad jokes surface. He even wears his cell phone on a belt clip sometimes.” 

“Some folks were just born to be dads,” Jared says with a small laugh. “How’s your paper going?”

Rolling her eyes, Abby sighs. “Ugh, the less we talk about that mess, the better. It’s due next week and I feel like I’ve only scratched the surface. There’s just so much.”

“You can always write more after.”

“True. Good lord, did you want something to drink?” Abby moves towards the fridge. “We got water, lemonade, sweet tea, Sprite, and orange juice. Unless dad drank all the OJ--again.” 

“I’m okay, thank you though. Wherever we’re going, I don’t wanna be running back and forth to the bathroom.”

“Y’all are gonna love it,” Abby squeals. She grabs a can of Sprite and pops it open. “When Lana told me about it I was like--duh! Why hadn’t I thought of that? Just don’t leave too early, okay? Stick around after the sun goes down.”

Incredibly wary, Jared narrows his eyes. “Is there gonna be food?”

“Yeah!”

“Good food?”

“No, Jared, I’m totally sending you and my dad to an abandoned Arby’s fifty miles out of town.”

“...Arby’s gives me heartburn.”

“It’s not Arby’s, I swear!”

“Uh huh.”

“My dad really likes you.” Abby looks at her can of Sprite. “He played the violin for you.”

Jared nods and softly says, “Yeah, he did.”

Abby looks up and trades Jared another smile. “So you see why I’d never send y’all to Arby’s.”

A quiet moment lingers, in a comforting, peaceful kind of way. Jared never thought the mention of Arby’s would ever leave him blushing, smiling, and downright speechless. What does he follow that up with? What could possibly match that? 

Jensen steps into the kitchen. He waves at Jared, then immediately shoves his hands into his pockets. The warm and fuzzy feelings go poof. Okay. No hug then. 

“Hey,” Jensen murmurs. “Thanks for swinging by.”

The urge increases to motion towards Jensen and ask Abby, “Why? Do you see this? Why is he like this? Can you explain him to me? Is there a Jensen Ackles manual I need to read?”  

Fortunately, Jared gets ahold of himself. He shrugs and says, “No problem. I like driving. As you guys saw by my pizza delivery schtick.” 

Abby’s eyes light up. “Do you think the pizza place is hiring? I could use a part-time job.” 

For this, Jensen takes his hands out of his pockets in order to assume dad mode. He folds his arms over his chest in a show of ultimate dad authority. Jared finds it amusing, but also somewhat frustrating. Does that stance get him anywhere? Because if Jared were Abby, whatever Jensen says next, he’d want to do the exact opposite. 

“I thought you were going to focus on school,” Jensen comments, surprising no one. 

“School is easy,” Abby quips. “And I wouldn’t be working forty hours a week. Maybe like, ten or twelve.”

“So you want to drive around and deliver pizzas to strangers for twelve hours a week? Is that safe?” Both Abby and Jensen look at Jared for clarification. 

Well, shit. 

How does he talk his way out of this one? Caught in the middle, he holds his hands up. “Look y’all, let’s not assume Gina even has a job opening. I’ll find out, then you two can debate the details. No sense in fussing about it now.” 

With a dramatic sigh she has had years to perfect around her father, Abby concedes. She offers a fist bump to Jared; he accepts. “Thanks. I’ll stop in by Gina’s tomorrow and see if she can use some help.” She immediately looks over at Jensen. “And we can talk about it after that. Now go.” After a thwap to Jensen’s chest, she hugs him. He hugs back like she’s a door floating in the middle of the Atlantic. “Have fun and text me later.” 

Turning back to Jared, she holds her arms out. “Hugs?” 

“Yeah,” Jared laughs. They briefly hug, and she returns to her perch in the living room, curled up on the larger couch with blankets and her iPad. She’s halfway through the first season of The Fall. 

A glance at Jensen’s somber face has Jared wishing he got to stay and watch Jamie Dornan and Gillian Anderson. 

But.

He kicked ass at brainstorming with Lynette this morning. His staff is wonderful. Sales have been steady all week. And his brother will be in Middle Road tomorrow for an entire week. He’s concentrated caffeine.

The baby kicks twice. 

Yes. 

Jared grabs Jensen by the hand and pulls him towards the door. 

“C’mon. All I got are some directions and The Very Best of Dolly Parton on my phone. Let’s haul ass.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think everyone should own The Best of Dolly Parton or some variation of it. <3
> 
> i went back and forth on this chapter. i wanted to jump right into the date, but i was like, slow down, cal. i think there's merit in the smaller scenes--they have big emotional impact. whereas the date is just gonna have big laughs. XD
> 
> also, The Fall is amazing and i love Gillian Anderson. i've only seen the first season but omg.
> 
> comments are love! :D


	21. Chapter 21

Before TB&TR opened, Jared interviewed a few owners of coffee shops slightly smaller and larger than his throughout the country. He asked them a variety of questions, but honed in on how to train employees. Should he create manuals? Note cards? Coffee passports like Starbucks? Quizzes?

Should he sit new employees down in front of a computer and subject them to hundreds of modules with titles like, “Customer Service Standards” or “Listening Actively”?

Good lord, Jared hated those modules. Who the fuck voices them? How does someone get into that job? How do they sleep at night knowing that they narrated shit like, “The Types of Difficult Callers”?

For the first twenty miles, Jared feels like he’d rather endure twenty of those modules in a row instead of driving with Jensen in the car. He tries a few topics of conversation to get Jensen to talk--tosses a few nibbles of things that might get him to bite and make the car ride less awkward. Nothing works. Before Jared can reach over and shake him, he takes a deep breath and tries to think of what he might do to get Sanjay to talk.

Sanjay is reasonably shy with new folks. All Jared would have to do is share some information about himself first, then gradually guide the conversation to focus on Sanjay. But at least Sanjay would have the understanding and the manners to respond.

“Okay,” Jared huffs. He pulls over onto the side of the road. He still has no idea where he’s driving to, but he’ll be damned if he spends the entire car ride with an adult acting like a kid who didn’t get their favorite flavor of ice cream at the parlor. With the flashers on, Jared looks over at Jensen. “What in the hell happened that you’re even more zoned out that usual? You gonna talk to me at all today or should I let you call a cab from here? Because shit, Jensen, this is a fucking lousy date so far.”

Ah, Jared’s good old friend--confrontation.

Jensen’s eyes widen.

“Wow, look at that,” Jared whistles. “An actual reaction. Not verbal, but baby steps, baby steps. You got anything to add or you gonna let your eyes do all the work?”

Almost in a fit of rebellion, Jensen’s jaw twitches and tightens. He clears his throat. “You’re sure as hell pushy, huh?”

“I’ve pushed two healthy babies out of my body, I’m one hundred and ten percent sure as hell pushy.”

“...that’s an interesting way to put it.”

“Don’t derail. The hell is wrong? Something about me and this date? Or something else entirely?”

Jensen chews on his lip and fidgets for a second. Worry pulls at the corners of his beautiful mouth. God damn that mouth. Focus. Don’t stare at it. Or the freckles. Or the long eyelashes. Or the firm jaw line. Now it’s Jared’s turn to fidget in his seat, though for entirely different reasons.

“You really think it’s a good idea to let her deliver pizzas?”

“Let who do what? Oh.” Jared nods. “Abby. You’re still rolling that around?”

“Of course I am. I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“You think it’s beneath her or something?”

“That’s baiting,” Jensen murmurs.

Jared folds his arms across his chest. “Yeah, well, it’s also the truth. Most parents think their kids are too good to clean bathrooms or earn tips. Are you one of those parents?”

“No, because one of my first jobs was cleaning the stalls out at the ranch,” Jensen retorts. “But I do have a problem with my young, black, female daughter delivering pizzas in a predominantly white neighborhood in the middle of the night.”

“Oh.” Jared uncrosses his arms. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. I’m sorry for being as fun as a wet mop. Abby and I haven’t been seein’ eye to eye on a bunch of things lately and it’s… a little scary.” Jensen’s voice goes soft. “It’s tempting to swoop in and tell her what she can’t do. But it doesn’t work that way.”

Cautiously, Jared reaches over and pats Jensen on the knee. “It’s always tempting to be ‘right’ in any situation. You know, we don’t have to do this.”

“Do what?”

“Go on this date. I can drive you back home and you can talk to Abby.”

“She will kill me if I agreed to that. I really do want to be here. It’s just… been a tough week.”

“Boy, has it ever,” Jared adds with a nod. “Then maybe…” Jared squeezes Jensen’s knee. “Take a page from her book and enjoy yourself for the next couple of hours. There’s nothing you can do about the job right now. But you can select a song to play from my epic CD collection while I drive.”

Jensen smiles and nods. He hauls out one of two heavy binders of CDs. Jared pulls the car back onto the street and follows the rest of Lana’s directions--the directions he promised not to Google. He laughs when Jensen picks a Waylon Jennings CD, plays a few songs, then pops in Queen.

Halfway through Under Pressure, they reach their destination.

Jared peers through the windshield and he can’t fucking believe it.

“Goldroy’s Blueberry Farm,” Jensen reads out loud, unaware of the danger that lies ahead. “Well this will be… interesting.”

“Good lord, you have no idea,” Jared quips. He drives over to the grass parking lot. One of the Goldroys--Ed or something--sits at the entrance and collects the five dollar entrance fee. Jensen pays Ed and Ed passively points to the lot.

“He seemed uh, nice enough.”

“Ed, at least I think his name is Ed, is not my problem. It’s Gilda.”

“Why?”

Jared parks the car and sighs. “Why tell you and spoil the fun when you can see for yourself?”

Gilda Goldroy may be ninety years old. No one is entirely sure. That doesn’t matter as much, however, since she has the energy of someone half her age. She prides herself on being the only blueberry farm owner in Vermont who wears bright pink Spandex and leopard print blouses. Her hands are perpetually blue, to the point where she quit trying to wash it off and embraced it by painting her nails the same color as the blueberries. Most days, folks can find her in the patches, short enough that she doesn’t have to hunch over, wearing strappy sandals and her pink Spandex and gold hoop earrings.

Aside from running the farm with her family, she enjoys exercising her appetite for gossip.

Goldroy’s is fifty miles from Middle Road, and yet, Gilda knows everything about Jared, right down to his shoe size. She only drives into Middle Road twice a year and yet, that’s enough for her to acquire the most intimate details of three quarters of its population.

“My god!” Gilda screeches, ambling out of the barn. Someone must have alerted her to Jared’s presence. “Look who it is!” She holds her arms out for a hug.

Jared laughs, nervous, and kind of sort of returns the hug.

“Is this a DATE?!” Gilda thumps Jensen on his chest. “Well, dip me in brine, boil me up, and serve me on rye bread--ain’t you a tall drink of water!”

Jensen rubs his chest. The expression on his face speaks of utter confusion. “Uh, hello ma’am.”

“Hello ma’am,” Gilda repeats with joy. “That brings me back to my days in Memphis. Where you from?”

“Texas…”

“No fooling!”

“Uh, no, no fooling.”

“He from your neck of the woods?” Gilda slaps Jared’s shoulder.

“Not exactly,” Jared murmurs.

Unrelenting, Gilda takes Jensen by the arm and guides him into the barn. “My god, I never thought I’d see Jared date another living, breathing individual ever again. He been through a dry spell worse than Moses in the desert. I can say that, I’m a New York Jew. Spent some time out in Memphis with family, hauled some of their asses up here, started the farm, and here we’ve been since. Thaddy, rustle up some baskets for this male model right off the runway, mm, mm.” Gilda has squeezed and touched Jensen more than Jared has all day. “Now, I’mma ask you this question, and I can, because I’m an old lady. You showin’ Jared a good time today?”

All six members of Gilda’s family stop whatever they are doing and look over. Customers, too.

Jared face palms. Jensen turns bright red. He murmurs a quiet, dignified, “Yes, ma’am.”

Lana purposefully wrote different directions than the ones Jared would recognize as leading to Gildroy’s Blueberry Farm. He looks on as Gilda shares with Jensen how long, looooong it’s been since Jared has been on a proper date. Jared might as well have signed up to be a monk.

“Now, I tried setting him up with my grandson, Yancy.” Gilda points over to said grandson. “But you know what your date said? He was ‘too busy with the shop.’ Now, you be careful he don’t say that to you. You look too fine to snuff out, mmhmm.”

Yancy also didn’t make eye contact with Jared at the attempted set up, which happened two years ago, right in the middle of TB&TR. He spilled coffee all over the counter, didn’t pay, and ran out of the shop before Jared could even properly explain anything beyond, “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

Jared’s dry spell had been a combination of things, one of which included the pool of applicants he had to choose from.

“Here we are,” Gilda announces. She shoves baskets into their hands. “G’won and pick as much as y’all like. The first basket is on me. Baskets after that we’ll weigh and ring y’all out back here. Y’all got a good hour and a half left til sundown.”

Jared wishes he had Googled the directions. They’ve struggled enough maintaining conversations in the car, at dinner, or just sitting on the couch. Picking blueberries for ninety minutes does not sound like it’ll bring them any particular joy, reason, or grand epiphany. Also, Jared has spent all week on his feet. Picking blueberries is not the kind of activity he’d like to spend his Friday afternoon doing.

Jensen looks at his basket, then looks over at Jared. He smiles and shrugs. “I… I used to pick blackberries as a kid.”

“Don’t say that too loud, she’ll hear you and hire you.”

“Can you use blueberries in the shop?”

“I can give some to Tarteel for pastries,” Jared muses as they walk out of the barn and towards the fields. Families, couples, and friends meander through. “And I could probably do something with them in the cold drinks. Maybe blueberry coffee. I don’t come around here much, never really thought about it.”

“Well, let’s pick your shop some berries.” Jensen holds his basket in one hand, then with the other, touches the small of Jared’s back. It’s a small gesture right after a small sentence.

And Jared is not deaf to the hooting and hollering coming from the barn that occurs right after.

Still, he smiles, and walks on, in step with Jensen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally, i feel well enough to post something! yay! it's been a rough few weeks for flares. i can't wait until fall is here and settled in. this change in weather is yucky.
> 
> i am terribly allergic to blueberries. T_T 
> 
> comments are love, thank you for your patience! <3


	22. Chapter 22

“I’m forty years old and I still remember picking berries as a kid. 

I grew up on my dad’s ranch until I was fourteen and he hauled me off to live with my mom. They were married, but mom never liked ranch life and preferred to live in the city. It worked for them, don’t know how. Personally, I think he liked the break. She can be… a bit much. 

Uh, so, I went to school and lived in Dallas. I got out to the ranch as much as I could. It’s always interested me. Everything from the horses to the inventory to talking to the vets. I’m sure dad enjoyed the free labor. I had one horse, he was all mine. That was Rowdy. Dad decided it was time for me to take on more of the ranch--I was sixteen.

I’ve been to ranches all over the country. Sometimes I’d help train a few horses, see them to competitions. But that wasn’t my speciality. Wasn’t my dad’s either. Isn’t. He’s still out there, stubborn as hell even with his arthritis. And my mom’s still in Dallas. They see each other once a week for dinner. Anyway. Sorry. I tend to get off track. So. I spent high school runnin’ back and forth. The summer I turned seventeen, my dad brought on a new assistant manager, David, who got out of the business but wanted back in, and eventually aimed to start his own ranch again. David brought his daughter with. 

It’s probably super predictable from there, right? 

Well, okay, the way I tell it, it is. When you hear Annie or Abby tell it, I’m like… shit, that really did happen. 

Abby tells it more like this: white ranch dude met black ranch girl, fooled around some, and had a biracial ranch baby. She’s uh, a real minimalist when it comes to stories. Annie can tell it best. 

It wasn’t just fooling around. I didn’t mess around with anyone on the ranch and I didn’t with Annie.

I missed her whenever I had to go back to Dallas.

My mother didn’t approve. Our fathers were skeptical. So, naturally, when we turned eighteen, we got married. Two days after graduation. You know, the way kids do. Or did. I… I can’t say it was a one hundred percent great idea, but what’d we know. We moved into a ranch hand cabin on her father’s ranch--not too far from my dad’s. The plan was to merge both ranches once David got his up and running. 

I said cabin, but it was pretty much a cottage. And even that’s generous. But hell, it was ours.

I loved her. I still do. Three years went by quick. We built up the ranch, the cabin, and decided that things were going well so might as well build a family. We took turns going to school. I got two years in before Abby was born. Annie got three, then finished when Abby was two. 

Am I talking too much?

Okay, just… making sure. 

Uh, where was I? Oh. Abby. I built her crib. I’m sure every parenting book and magazine now would tell me off, but she survived. She hated horses until she was six. I rode with her every day for three months straight until she said Rowdy didn’t like me being so bossy. That stung. I was glad I got her to ride, though. 

Not gonna lie that the schools are better in Dallas. The closest school to us on the ranch was a good thirty miles out. I think that was our first big fight between me and Annie. She wanted to send Abby to a private school in Dallas. I wanted to keep Abby close by and maybe do some extra homeschooling. I think that’s when I really… started to open my eyes. Most of the kids at the school nearby had never seen a black person before. That… fucked me up. And as shitty as it was for me to see, it was harder for Annie and Abby. 

Kids are mean. The private school in Dallas wasn’t much better in terms of accepting that a six year old black girl could be in the ninetieth percentile in every subject and skill. The teachers were better, and the kids weren’t outwardly mean, but I saw it. I saw every future conflict, fight, and struggle at that fancy school same as the one nearby. 

My mother offered to pay for the private school. David offered to take her to a more diverse school seventy five miles out. Annie and I fought every night after Abby went to bed. 

So. 

For a week, we tried out our options. I went with Abby to the school nearby and sat in the back of the classroom. Annie went with her to the private school in Dallas and did the same thing. Both times, Abby came back a little quieter. 

It was my dad who hauled Annie and I together and brought up a good solution. Good enough, anyway. We’d pay for tutors. That was that. 

But you know, it’s never that simple. We wanted her to be around other kids--just not asshole, racist kids. We paid for two tutors to come out three times a week, then David drove her seventy-five miles and back to Wrightwood Elementary twice a week. On the weekends, we tried our best to make sure she got to see her cousins on both sides of the family. I feel like we cobbled that together. I think that’s what parenting is--making it up as you go.

Monday, Wednesday, Friday, Abby stayed home. Tuesdays and Thursdays, she went to school and did afterschool activities. David was never a minute late dropping her off or picking her up. The older she got, the more friends came over and then the sleepovers started and once we got a phone, forget it. I thought she was physically attached to that phone once she hit fifth grade. What do fifth graders have to talk about that takes hours and hours? I still don’t really know. 

Junior high, we bumped her up to three days at school, two days at home--we just flipped her schedule. 

High school was another mess. 

If there’s one thing I saw white teachers at the local high school hate more than a black girl in their class, it was a smart black girl. Annie and I both agreed that the school nearby was out of the question. Fuck. No. 

But it was hard to drive seventy-five miles both ways, three or four times a week. David never said it, but it was exhausting. And we still had two years before she could drive herself. Not that I think we would have even let her do that. Again. I try not to be the helicopter parent. It’s just… tougher than I thought it would be.

And there was my mom, still offering to pay for private school in Dallas. The high school was more diverse, and there were black teachers and staff. It just didn’t feel right. None of us wanted to be in Dallas--except my mom.

So. 

We moved. Just the three of us--to a two bedroom house ten miles away from Wrightwood High School. 

Annie did the books for a petting zoo fifteen miles out, and I spent two days out by David and my dad, then the rest I picked up farm or ranch work close by. 

We did that for a year before I… we… Annie and I… 

Look, there are some folks like you, or Abby, or Annie--y’all speak your minds. You feel something, you say it. I have never been one of those people. 

That’s how I went on for years without really understanding that my marriage was more like a friendship. 

It wasn’t an ugly divorce. It’s been five years already. We fought more when we were married than right before we separated. It was more like something gradual. We both knew it was happening, but we didn’t really know how to stop it. Or want to. It’s still hard for me to explain. 

We lived together up until Abby moved here last year. After she left, Annie and I stuck around at home. We tried to see if we could start things over. I think that always happens. You try. Or at least, I think you should try.

When Annie asked me if it was okay to see other people last year, I didn’t know what to say. Sure? Go ahead? In the five years after our divorce, we focused on Abby. Uh, that time in Austin… that was my… the only time. You know. So it was kind of… difficult when Annie asked last year if she could be serious with someone else. 

I moved out after that. 

Went back to my dad’s ranch. I think last year was one of the shittiest years I’ve ever been through. 

I didn’t have my wife or my daughter. 

David and my dad did merge their ranches. Annie manages it all now. I helped her transition into that role before I found myself moving north. David’s been traveling this year. He sent me a postcard from Italy not too long ago. The plan is for me to find a ranch of my own. I don’t know if it’ll be up here or back in Texas, but it’s a privilege to have my options open for a while. This is good land. The soil here is so different. Never did learn that much about growing stuff. Abby says I should wait to decide until after my first winter here. 

You look… shocked. What? Did I say too much? Is there blueberry on my face?” 

Jared smiles. 

Both their fingers are blue. They’ve filled up about five baskets of blueberries. The sun has worked on setting while Jensen’s voice occupied their row of bushes. 

A blush the color of the sunset spreads over Jensen’s face. 

“No blueberry on your face,” Jared murmurs. “But there’s about to be some--on your shirt, too.” 

Jared reaches over, grabs Jensen’s shirt, and pulls him in for a kiss. It’s the kind of kiss he’s got to give with one hand on Jensen’s shirt for balance and the other on Jensen’s jaw for good measure. They’ve both been snacking on blueberries during their labor. Jensen tastes sweet and tart. The deep inhale and exhale he gives during the kiss reassure Jared that there’s more than just a friendly feeling here. 

That one kiss turns into a second. 

And that second almost turns into a race back to the car, blueberries be damned. 

“YOO-HOO!” Gilda’s voice shoots from the barn to the fields like an expertly aimed arrow. “Head on inside, you two! Don’t make me git the hose!” 

They don’t take her one hundred percent seriously until right after kiss three, when water hits Jensen’s back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> phew, thank you for your patience while i got back around to this fic! <3
> 
> yaaaaay for talking! i tried something new in this fic for this chapter. comments are love. and as always, thank you for reading.


	23. Chapter 23

Jensen offers to drive back.

He cues into the ache in Jared’s lower back from standing and the hint of nausea that hits him from eating too many blueberries, which the baby doesn’t seem to be a fan of. Cousin Ted helps Jensen load the five baskets of blueberries they picked, plus the two additional ones Gilda insisted that Jared take for himself. She made him promise he would use them at home, not at the store, and sent along a tote bag full of salsa, relish, and pickles all from her garden. It’s up to him whether or not to share with Jensen.

Jared pops open one of the jars of pickles as soon as they get back onto the main road.

“Tell me if the smell bothers you,” Jared manages to say in between bites of the first crisp, delicious pickle. “Fuck, I love pickles.”

“I raised a small human,” Jensen answers. “I can handle smells a lot worse than pickle brine. Are they good?”

“Uh huh.”

“Fork one over.”

“You’re asking a pregnant person to share their pickles?”

“Either you share one of those pickles or we play a game of hide the pickle later.”

Jared doesn’t try to silence the snort that happens when he laughs. “Wow! Look at you! Those must have been magic blueberries. You suddenly have way more social skills.” As soon as that last part leaves his mouth, regret flares up. “Sorry,” Jared quickly adds. “It’s just…”

Jensen nods and briefly holds up his right hand. “It’s alright.” A smile tugs at the attractive corners of his mouth. “I know I’m typically not… social.”

“You’re pretty vocal whenever we’ve, uh, hid the pickle as you put it.”

The flash of a freckled grin reminds Jared of a perfect shot of espresso in the morning. He forks over a pickle and opens a second jar. Sitting down and eating won’t make him much for conversation, so he invites Jensen to futz with the radio if he’s so inclined.

Vermont rushes past in a mixture of indigo, cobalt, and silver.

After he finishes his pickle, Jensen goes for the radio. Jared nibbles on a pickle, anxious to see what Jensen will pick. Please not lite jazz. Please not heavy metal. Please not NPR. Please not that one classical station with the guy who sounds like zombies from the 1800’s would make more amusing and entertaining hosts. Please nothing with proclamations of love for trucks, beer, and women, because Jared got enough of that in Texas.

“Neil Diamond?” Jensen looks over at Jared.

“...oh. Sure.”

“You suck at trying to be polite.”

“It’s not my forte,” Jared whines. “I’m sorry. I can’t with the Diamond.”

“What if I told you I have three Neil Diamond tattoos on my body?”

“First off all, I’ve seen you naked.”

“Maybe they’re small Neil Diamond tattoos.”

“No!”

“C’mon. What if I’ve been to every concert and I’m part of his fanclub and I really, really want him to sing at my school’s upcoming dance?”

“Shut your mouth, Marcia!”

There’s a drink for this moment. The base would be something solid, weighty, like whole milk. But Jared would heat it up slow. And add air to make it frothy and foamy. Espresso, but pulled into shot glasses first, then poured into the milk top down. A pump of French Vanilla syrup. A hint of Caramel syrup. Then the real deal caramel drizzled over, in a grid, so that it sinks in just the right way.

The radio dial settles on a station Jared typically skips past. Jensen immediately knows the next song that plays, even though it comes on a few seconds in. He takes one hand off the wheel and pats his thigh to the rhythm. Jared looks over, curious and amused. First the thigh-patting, then the slight shoulder shaking.

Adorable.

Too adorable.

This station plays a bunch of Americana and folk music. But the lead singer of this song has a great voice. The beat is bluesy, bouncy, and beautifully textured.

Jensen, too, has a great voice.

“He was born, a hammer in hand. The baddest mother’s son in the Promised Land,” Jensen sings, barely above a murmur. Jared tries to stay as still as possible. If he moves too fast or makes any kind of noise, Jensen might take back his voice. The rhythm of the song is assertive. Jensen sits up a little straighter in his seat. His hands tap the steering wheel.

“Now drive that steel, drive it hard.” Jensen follows the natural progression of chords, thumping the wheel at each point of emphasis. “Won’t you drive it on home to the graveyard.” He even moans along with the lead singer--sultry and divine.

Jared dares to add his own thigh tapping.

“Oh, Johnny, swing that hammer. Johnny, swing it right. Swing it all day, swing it all night. Until the Judgement Day.”

Okay. Good. More. More thigh-tapping.

“See that man against the Machine. Working like a one who won’t be beat. Gonna break my back, have a heart attack, but I will not give up, I will not--” Jensen adds the right amount of emphasis on the right words and his drawl shines through. “But momma, oh you know it hurts so bad. Ooh Lord, it hurts so bad.”

The song builds and builds and builds in this jangly folk-rock beat and tempo.

Thigh tapping. Shoulder shaking. Pickle munching.

It all works towards one big cry, one punch and shout.

Jensen’s mouth forms the most beautiful shape. “The good Lord treats me right, oh he says, Johnny, swing that hammer! The good, good Lord says, Johnny…”

“Swing that hammer!” Jared chimes in, shaking his head, raising his hands.

“Swing it all day!”

“Swing it all night!”

“Into the Judgement Daaaaay.”

The next thing Jared knows, they are back at his apartment and making out like adolescent bunnies in the spring. He’s hard, Jensen’s hard, they manage to do the math and bump-kiss-shuffle down the hallway and into Jared’s room.

They do a little sidestep. Sweep over the hardwood floor. None of the blueberry stains on their clothes matter as they peel and pull off layers.

Standing at the edge of Jared’s bed, they take one second to assess their situation.

Totally naked, Jensen offers up a shy, introverted smile. There’s a depth to his eyes Jared hopes doesn’t recede or backtrack after this moment. He’d hammer all day and all night to get it back.

With a chin tilt towards the bed, Jensen says, “Let’s go hide my pickle.”

Jared busts out laughing.

They fuck chest to back, each of them holding onto the headboard at various points. Jensen pounds into him from behind like a single hammer to a mountain with only one goal. And Jared urges him on, begging to be banged, plowed, and broken.

Years of work on a ranch afford Jensen the thighs and hips to fuck the hell out of Jared.

And the good lord saw it fit to bless Jensen with the added bonuses of a thick, heavy cock and the knowledge how to use it.

It’s Jared’s mission to give Jensen reason to be happy about it. On the brief few seconds Jensen stills, Jared pushes back, adds pressure, and tilts his hips in such a way as to accentuate his curves and all too willing form.

One hand fists itself in Jared’s hair; the other wraps itself around Jared’s cock.

Any thought to their actions goes out the door and mails itself to China.

Rutting. Grinding. Driving.

Jared comes, shouting into his pillow, gripping onto the sheets. He feels himself shoot all over Jensen’s hand, the underside of his belly, and the bed underneath them. Rope after rope of come--it doesn’t seem to stop. And neither do Jensen’s hips. Jared braces himself and tries to remember to breathe as Jensen fucks him closer and closer to a second orgasm.

“Coming!” Jared cries. “Oh, fuck, Jen--coming!”

Brewhead. Tamper. Grinder. Scale. Portafilter. Filtered water. Grind fresh whole beans only right before brewing. Small batches. A triple shot dose. Equal and consistent water contact. Apply pressure for a firm tamp. Pull. Initiate the pull. Pull. Pull. Pull.

Jensen comes, his fingers dig into Jared’s hips.

This is like three shots. Dark, before it turns golden and foamy. Always mind the time. Adjust for grind, dose, and tamp. But this? This mess of limbs and sweat and come and kisses after?

Perfectly extracted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man, it's been a month. sorry about that! thank you for your patience. here's some smut. XD
> 
> also, the song here is "john henry" by blue water highway. it's a fantastic song/band and i highly recommend that you give it a listen. :D
> 
> comments, as always, are love. <3


	24. Chapter 24

Holy shit.

Morning sex with Jensen might be better than evening and late night sex with Jensen. 

Jared would wax poetic about the little details leading up to this early epiphany--freckles highlighted by morning sun, god damn adorable crows feet, sleepy green eyes, messy hair, completely irresistible, shapely lips totally ready and willing to kiss every inch of Jared’s body… 

The fact that Jensen has had him, on his back, fucking into him hard, fast, dirty, and rough for the past half an hour. The fact that not only does Jensen understand exactly where, when, and how to thrust his cock and at what angle, length, and speed. The fact that chest to chest provides Jared with an optimal view of the way Jensen bites down on his plush bottom lip as he pounds away, just as absolutely lost. The fact that Jared has been white knuckling onto the headboard, screaming his lungs out, begging to be fucked harder, faster, more, more, more. The fact that they’ve been going at it like a hundred corn dogs being dipped into batter ever since Jared woke up. And the fact that he woke up to a warm cup of decaf coffee provided to him by the gloriously naked man who so thoroughly fucked him last night. 

Just the fact that it all feels so primal. Animal. Hot. Holy  _ shit _ . 

Jared comes all over Jensen’s stomach, chest, throat, and right hand. Jensen comes buried inside Jared, feeding Jared’s rapid addiction to being spread, fucked, and filled up.

By only nine in the morning, they sound like a couple of marathon runners--wheezing, gasping, and panting for breath. Jared struggles to maintain his grip on reality. Could anyone blame him? After that impressive display of raw, carnal lust and desire? After this stunning tall drink of water forgot he was in Vermont and let his accent and drawl loose as he shouted Jared’s name and a list of expletives and prayers to God? 

“...fuuuuuck,” Jared exhales, shoving his hair out of his red, sweaty face. 

Jensen nods in agreement. 

There are enough bodily fluids on them and Jared’s bed to determine the genetic profiles of at least two dozen people. 

On the same mental wavelength, Jensen announces, “Don’t shine a blacklight near here anytime soon.”

Jared bursts out laughing. “I wasn’t planning on it, thank you.” He sits up and takes another sip of the now-cold coffee Jensen brought to him as an offering. “Hey, this is actually pretty good.”

“Thanks,” Jensen says, standing for a stretch. He looks a little wobbly on his feet. “You happen to own at least one coffee machine I could understand.”

“I appreciate you not breaking the Jura and using the Mr. Coffee instead.”

“Who said I didn’t?”

“...”

Jensen quickly holds his hands up. “Woah. If looks could kill.”

“I’m going to forgive you for even insinuating that you hurt my incredibly expensive, top of the line coffee maker. The one with seventeen different programmable specialty coffees, dual hopper system, and four outlets.” 

“Okay. Lesson learned. Do not joke about the coffee machines. Even your Mr. Coffee kind of freaked me out though.”

“Sorry we don’t all own Keurigs,” Jared snorts. 

Hands on his hips, Jensen continues to exist nakedly in front of Jared. “And what’s wrong with my Keurig?”

Jared makes grabby hands at Jensen as an effort to get him to exist nakedly next to him. It works. Jensen successfully sits down and offers his mouth for kissing. In between kisses, Jared details his personal hatred towards Keurigs. Bad for the environment. Jensen snakes his hands over Jared’s thighs. Terrible for taste buds, unless people enjoy watered down crap, in which case to each their own. With a reach underneath Jared’s belly, Jensen’s hand somehow finds its way to Jared’s cock. K-cups average out at about thirty dollars per pound of coffee, which is ridiculously overpriced and Keurig knows it. 

Jensen scoots down and settles in the vee of Jared’s legs. 

He starts blowing Jared. 

“And,” Jared blurts out, “they steal… fuck… customers from… ahh… chains and independent shops like… mmm.” A TB&TR trainee can make the most basic cup of coffee that tastes ten times better than the brown water shat from a Keurig. Not that Jared can articulate that at the moment. Jensen’s lips form a tight seal over the tip of his cock to apply enticing pressure. 

Jared could get used to this. He closes his eyes, sits back, and forgets all about the evils of Keurig machines and K-cups. Problems? Who could have problems with Jensen’s lips, mouth, throat, and tongue working on them? 

For the hundredth time this morning, Jared thanks the good lord that he opted for an apartment with soundproof walls--and an in-unit washer/dryer. These sheets are toast.

“Ouch,” Jared yips. 

Immediately, Jensen pops off and looks up. “Huh? You okay?” Jensen thinks for a second. “Teeth?”

“It’s okay, not you.” Trying to act casual, Jared forces a smile. “Just a kick.” Or three. In a row. And then some kind of turning, twisting movement. He sucks in a breath and holds it, praying in the same way whenever someone calls off a shift. 

“Yeah, because that doesn’t look painful,” Jensen quips. “We can take a break. It’s alright.”

“What?” Jared’s face falls. “No, no, no, no,  _ no _ . No. Please. If you keep going it’ll distract me.”

Totally unconvinced, Jensen stares Jared down. “Right.”

“Look, I’m fine. I promise. But we should go eat breakfast soon.” A kick to his internal organs causes Jared to make a face. “Yep. Soon.”

“So you’re saying you want me to finish checking the oil?”

“What?”

“Churning the butter.”

“Wow.”

“Daubing the brush.”

“Daubing?”

“Doing the dipsy doodle.”

“Jensen. Get back to sucking my dick or I’m having breakfast without you.”

The talented sounds of deep throating replace any and all euphemisms. Jensen blows Jared wet, sloppy, intense, and ravenous. His head bobs up and down as he keeps his mouth and throat open. When he starts to intentionally choke on Jared’s cock, Jared loses it and issues panting, gasping, stammering warnings. 

“Almost,” Jared shouts. “Almost… close, close… fuck! Coming! Oh god, Jensen, I’m gonna come!”

From what might be one of the quickest and hottest blow jobs Jared has ever received, he delivers on his shouts and comes two seconds later. It is the hottest thing ever to come down Jensen’s throat. He feels Jensen actively work to swallow and breathe through his nose. 

Jensen drinks Jared up like he’s knocking back a perfectly layered latte macchiato. 

A full thirty seconds pass by without a need for words. 

Until the doorbell rings.

And Jared realizes he’s missed ten text messages this morning--all from Jeff, letting him know that his flight arrived super early so instead of making Jared drive, he’ll just take a cab. 

“Your brother?” Jensen stammers, helping Jared out of bed. “Your brother’s here?”

“Yep,” Jared nearly cries. “My older, possessive, not always very friendly to the people I date brother. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Funny how half an hour ago, he was using that word in a very different way. “This is not how I wanted y’all to meet.”

“I’ll say.” 

The doorbell rings again--twice in a row. 

Jared cringes and puts on a pair of pajama pants and a sweater. He tosses Jensen some random clothes gathered from a random pile on the floor. “Look, you can hide in the closet then duck out…”

“I’m not hiding in the closet, Jared.”

“Right. Too R. Kelly.”

“Amongst other things, yeah.”

“Under the bed?”

“Jared.”

“What?!”

“I can say hi.”

“Can you, though?” 

“I mean…” A blush spreads over Jensen’s face. “No, but I’ll manage. I can suck it up for a few minutes.”

Jared shoves Jensen towards the bathroom. “Yeah, yeah, yeah--we  _ know _ .” 

One minute later, right before Jared opens the front door, he offers Jensen an important nugget of advice. “My brother’s a butcher. Don’t be surprised if he shows you his knives.” 

Jensen gulps. “...what?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you for your patience! i know i say that a lot, but i am never not thankful. 
> 
> i hope you enjoyed the smut! :D i missed this fic. also--gasp, jared, i own a keurig! i don't use it anymore, but there was one point that i thought it was the best. thing. ever. 
> 
> as always, i appreciate comments. <3


	25. Chapter 25

Abby had warned Jensen that Vermont was nothing like Texas. She told him to prepare for vegan restaurants, breakfast tacos with quinoa instead of refried beans, and not a single Torchy’s Tacos to be found. That and the brutal winters and inadequate chicken fried steaks. 

She had not, however, warned him about or prepared him for the nearly seven foot tall Texan he would eventually meet in Vermont. The nearly seven foot tall Texan who just so happens to be a butcher and who just so happens to travel with his pack of professional knives and cleavers. The nearly seven foot tall Texan who just so happens not to take kindly to the dates of his six foot four little brother. The nearly seven foot tall Texan who said a polite greeting when introduced by said little brother, but who also nearly crushed Jensen’s hand in the handshake that came right after. 

Jeff is a physically imposing and intimidating individual. 

And an absolute teddy bear to Jared. 

“My god, you’re glowing,” Jeff laughs and runs a hand through Jared’s hair. “You look good, kiddo. Still kind of scrawny, but good.” 

The two brothers must have hugged for a full minute the second Jared opened the door. Jared instantly leaned into Jeff and Jeff instantly took hold of Jared. They laughed, hugged again, and immediately started bickering about who would carry Jeff’s bags inside. 

Jensen isn’t short by any means. He’s always been tall. Abby pouts that out of everything she inherited from Jensen, height was not one of them. Six foot one is not short. The Padaleckis are just inhumanly tall people. He keeps repeating that to himself as Jeff and Jared talk in the kitchen. Jared focuses on making coffee for everyone, while Jeff rummages through the duffle bag he brought. He takes out a small cooler and presents it with pride to Jared. 

Sometimes, Jensen thinks it would have been nice to have a sibling. Or to have given Abby a sibling. It’s clear as day that Jared and Jeff are close. They share the same infectious laugh and extroverted take on life. With only a few words, one can make the other burst out laughing. It’s a drastic change from the way Jensen grew up and the way he has lived for most of his adult life.

Annie understood Jensen’s introverted tendencies and shyness around people. But she never challenged Jensen on it or dared him to step out of his comfort zone. Not that it was all up to her. 

It’d be good for him--to have someone like that in his life.

Jared pokes at the cooler. “Human brains? Hearts? Eyes, maybe?” 

“You won’t know until you open it up. Go on. I’ll be the Queen of England if some of it hasn’t melted by now. I had to get one of the flight attendants to pack some more ice in there.” 

“How’d you get them to do that? Whenever I fly, they hardly give me a peanut without charging an arm and a leg.”

“Well, broski, let me just say that she definitely wanted my arms and legs.”

Jared punches Jeff on the shoulder. “Ugh. Shut up. Okay, let’s see what delightful pieces of carcass you brought this time.” 

New York Strip. Porterhouse. Ribeye. Filet mignon. American Wagyu. Jared pulls out piece after piece of exquisitely marbled, perfectly cut, incredibly expensive cuts of beef--all beautifully wrapped, with love notes from Jeff’s coworkers and boss. 

Tears start to well up in Jared’s eyes. He sniffles and shakes his head, then looks at Jeff. “You idiot, this is too much.”

Jeff brings Jared in for another hug. He makes a point to open his eyes mid-hug and lock eyes with Jensen. The expression on Jeff’s face could never be mistaken for friendly or warm or welcoming or even lukewarm. It’s something out of The Godfather, or maybe even The Shining. 

Without missing a beat, Jeff transitions back into doting older brother. 

Scary. 

And yet, Jensen can’t blame him. Not entirely. When Abby’s first boyfriend broke up with her, he made that same expression the minute she told him. 

However, he did not then pull out his collection of knives and cleavers. 

“I brought these babies,” Jeff announces, looking at Jensen. “Just in case y’all wanted to learn a little bit about what I do.”

By y’all, Jeff means Jensen. 

“Quit it,” Jared huffs and pours coffee from the expensive French press on the counter. “No one wants to hear your sharp pointy things lecture. Here. Drink up.” He hands one mug to Jeff and one mug to Jensen.

He made Jensen’s coffee light and sweet, with fresh vanilla cream. 

Jensen takes a sip and tries not to cry. God damn, can Jared make coffee. 

“It only takes a second,” Jeff insists. “So, Jensen. You know how important steak is, right? We’re all Texas boys here. Where’d you get your meat from?”

The store. From behind a counter or inside a cooler. Annie did all the grocery shopping. Once a year, they’d have porterhouse steaks. Maybe they could have afforded porterhouse steaks more often, but porterhouses never made it into the monthly budget of balancing a ranch and a child. 

“Uh,” Jensen coughs and clears his throat. “My ex did the shopping.”

Jeff gives a short, perfunctory nod. “I see. Well, let me break it down for you. I’m a butcher. The knives used to cut meat are almost as important as the meat itself. Smaller knives are best for deboning and filleting. The cleaver, like this guy here.” He holds a formidable cleaver in his right hand and shows it off, Vanna White style. 

“This one is good for bigger portions--and for chopping and cutting through bones. There are two kinds of blades--forged or stamped. Now, stamped blades are lighter and good for quick projects. But forged. That’s the kind of blade you want when you’re cutting through bone.”

He never breaks eye contact with Jensen. 

“You’ll notice on my favorite knife, the blade is slightly curved. This is useful for cutting, sectioning, and trimming large pieces of meat. Do you know what a Tomahawk chop is? It’s an on-the bone rib steak, cut from the fore-rib,” Jeff demonstrates on himself, using his favorite knife, “with the entire rib bone left.” 

Well.

This has been educational and threatening.

“Jeff,” Jared warns. “You can ease up now.”

Jeff looks over at Jared and laughs. “Hey, just gotta do the schpeel, you know? Especially to folks that might not appreciate how wonderful my brother truly is, and how he deserves nothing but the best.” 

“Go unpack.” Jared slaps Jeff upside the head. “Give me a minute to console Jensen and put away this stuff. Go. Go on.” Once Jeff leaves the kitchen, Jared sighs and looks over at Jensen. “Heh, well, that’s my brother. You scared?”

Jensen notices that Jeff conveniently left his knives out on the counter. “No,” he says and finishes up his coffee. “I mean, the knives are new, never seen that done before, but I guess I get where he’s coming from.” He then offers to wash his mug and Jeff’s. 

“That’d be great. Thanks.” Jared takes a seat at the kitchen island. “Have you ever given the schpeel to any of the people Abby’s brought home?”

Everything in the kitchen shines--bright and clean. Come to think of it, Jensen has never seen much of a mess in Jared’s apartment. He keeps it tidy and organized, just like his store. There have never been any dirty dishes piled up in the sink, no sea of papers flooding any available surface area, and not a single sock abandoned outside of a laundry basket. Maybe Jared has someone who cleans for him, but given Jared’s personality, that doesn’t seem likely. 

“I don’t think so,” Jensen murmurs. “But Abby would probably say different.”

“Wow, look at you, letting your daughter be her own person.”

Washing two mugs and the French press takes no time at all. What takes time is figuring out why exactly he’s still here. He could have left after introductions. In fact, two weeks ago, he probably would have. 

“Abby’s made me let her be her own person since she could crawl.” Jensen doesn’t mean for his voice to sound so soft. It gets that way whenever he talks about Abby. “All I can do is be there if she needs me.”

There are a few things Jensen wishes he’d taken more of a stance on throughout his daughter’s life. And there have been multiple times he has wanted to show her dates the shotgun and axes in the tool shed on the ranch. But doing any of that only seemed like a surefire path towards driving his daughter away from him. It’s different between siblings. The dynamics are different. 

“That’s…” Jared runs a hand through his hair. “That’s… wow.”

Why is he still here. 

Jared flashes a smile and leans against the counter. He looks relaxed, at ease, and open. “That’s very enlightened of you.”

Abby pushed him to start dating again. And it wasn’t so much a push as it was a shove. He’d been minding his own business, still working at unpacking, when she announced that he had a date the next night. He used to tell her to brush her teeth and go to her room. Somehow, she figured out how to tell him to get out of the house and meet someone new. 

Except Jared wasn’t someone new. 

Maybe if Jensen hadn’t been so gun shy five years ago, when he was in Austin, he wouldn’t be meeting Jeff for the first time. Or he wouldn’t be waking up in Jared’s bed after an afternoon of picking blueberries and a night of incredibly amazing sex. And in the morning, he wouldn’t be noticing the highlights in Jared’s hair for the first time. Or the way Jared murmurs in his sleep as he turns from side to side. 

Jensen leans closer towards Jared. 

It wouldn’t have worked out.

He was gun shy for a reason back then. He handled it like shit, but there was too much going on. People can learn from their mistakes. He knows that--about other people. After the divorce, it’s been tough believing it about himself.  

It could work out now.

Jensen hopes his hands stop shaking and that he isn’t visibly sweating. He hopes his words come out clear, sincere, and steady. “Can I kiss you?” 

Their eyes lock for a few fleeting seconds. 

With a small smile and a nod, Jared says, “Yeah.” 

It’s okay not to know entirely why he’s still in Jared’s apartment, in the kitchen, planting a light, soft, slow kiss on him. Being there is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh man, i can still write! hopefully, i can still write well. |D
> 
> y'all, it's been an interesting couple of months. i hope 2018 finds y'all happy and well. thanks for sticking around with me, as i enter my 5th year writing for this fandom. much love to y'all. <3


	26. Chapter 26

Jeff insists on taking Jared out for breakfast. 

“So, did I scare him or did I scare him?” 

“You’re sadistic, you know that? How long have you been holding my dates hostage for your manly show of protectiveness?” 

“Since you were eight years old and Tommy Lindquist tried to kiss you.”

“He kissed me on the cheek!”

“Without your express consent! I’ll do this manly show of protectiveness until the day I’m cold and dead in the ground.”

“Maybe you’ll be cold, but not dead--if I have anything to say about it.”

“Don’t bury me alive, it’s not nice.”

Jared swipes a piece of French toast from Jeff’s plate. He ignores the face Jeff makes. “Sorry, can’t hear you. Eating for two.”

“You promised you wouldn’t bury me alive when you were eleven.”

“I don’t see a notarized copy of a document maintaining that alleged promise.” 

Jeff heaves a dramatic sigh. He holds his fork like a weapon. “You’re boring me with your lawyer talk. Quit boring me, you’re boring. Tell me something interesting.” He leans forward, much more invested. “Is he less of an asshole since we talked about him last?”

The baby gives a kick as if to signal not to spill too many beans. Jared and Jeff have always shared secrets, however, there are a few things Jared likes to keep to himself. That kiss this morning is one of them and he’s not entirely sure why. It felt… good. More than good. Like the first press of high quality coffee beans. Like the fresh whipped cream piled high on his strawberry pancakes. Something to savor.

“There’s much less asshole,” Jared replies and adds an obnoxious waggle of his eyebrows. “And yet so much more.”

Nothing deflects like specifics about Jared’s sex life. Jeff sighs again and goes back to eating his breakfast. “Fine. Be that way. Aren’t you going to ask how I’ve been doing?”

“I wasn’t planning on it,” Jared teases. “But fine, whatever, I need sound to eat by.” 

Fifteen minutes later, Mauricio swings by to check on them and pour refills of coffee for Jeff and herbal tea for Jared. Jeff manages to cram in his updates on all the events going on in Austin and surrounding areas of Texas within those fifteen minutes and not a minute more. 

“That,” Jared yawns, stretching his arms, “was so boring. Don’t you do anything else besides eat meat and drink beer?” 

“Uh, no,” Jeff quips. “They’ll revoke my Texan card like they took away yours.” 

“And look how broken up I am by that.”

“Yep, still rotting away in the Great North where y’all have some of the best damn syrup. How many of these do you think I can cram into my suitcase?” Jeff doesn’t hold back from pouring rivers of syrup onto his remaining French toast and the unfinished remains of Jared’s pancakes. “What’s with you?” After he stuffs his face with carbs and syrup, he points his fork at Jared. “You never leave pancakes behind.” 

Jared feels his nose crinkle. “Maybe it’s the manners at this table?” 

Jeff tries to reply with something he thinks is incredibly witty and original, but quickly finds that he’s crammed too much into his mouth to do so. 

With a sigh, Jared explains. “I’m gonna blame it on morning sickness and lack of sleep. Maybe I’ll get something salty later. Sweet stuff--ugh.” 

“Don’t barf.”

“You’re so helpful,” Jared snorts and kicks Jeff under the table. “Is that why you flew thousands of miles to see me? To tell me not to barf?” 

“No.” Jeff takes a long drink of coffee, basks in Vermont-syrup-happiness, and gives Jared a small smile. “But there’s no harm in tossing that out there. Don’t barf. It’s good advice.” Mauro appears with a refill of coffee and an extra plate of French toast mysteriously sent over by the kitchen. Any onlooker would think Jeff had won the lottery, discovered a pot of gold, and found the necklace the old lady dropped into the ocean at the end. 

Digging in, Jeff manages to form a few sentences. 

“The last few times we talked on the phone you sounded… sad.” Just a few words in and Jared recognizes this as the parental tone of voice Jeff has used since they were kids. “And I don’t just mean stressed.”

“I’m always stressed,” Jared grumbles and tries to get comfortable in the booth. “You know, sadness is within the range of normal human emotions. Dude, I am begging you. Take smaller bites or I will barf all over this table and your precious French toast.”

Jeff nods and pauses for a coffee break, then continues. “I know sadness is within the range of normal human emotions, Dr. Padalecki. Sheesh.” 

People walk past, either on their way to their tables or leaving the restaurant. Families, couples, friends. A toddler attempts to pull out a chair for his grandmother and the adults around can’t get enough. Jared resists an overwhelming urge to go over there and blow raspberries on the kid’s tummy. 

Hormones. 

It has got to be hormones. 

“Sometimes,” Jared says, his voice quiet, “I feel like I’m sixteen years old and about to have some dude’s kid--without any clue how I’m gonna raise the kid or what I’m gonna do to make it happen.” 

“Hey,” Jeff murmurs, his voice equally quiet. “You’re not in that position. At all. You have a lot more control over things than I think you realize.”

Jared nods and runs a hand through his hair. “Thanks. I… this kid,” he gives a brief pat to his middle, “makes me so god damn moody.”

“Kids do that. You said Jensen has a kid.” 

“Yeah. I really like Abby.”

“How old?”

“Huh? Oh. She’s twenty.”

“Hardly a kid, Jared.”

“True, but you should see the way he looks at her. Like no one else.”

Jeff doesn’t say anything for a minute. He leans back in his side of the booth and taps his fingers on the table. It’s classic gotta-think-about-how-to-say-shit Jeff. 

“I think…” Jeff leans forward again. “That taking time off is going to be a really good thing for you.”

Jared stares at his brother for a second. “What? That’s it?” 

No huge lecture. No ominous warnings. No scoldings, no prodding, no arguing, no soapbox, no sermon, no chiding, no preaching, and not even a single Oprah style tell-me-how-you-really-feel. 

What the fuck kind of alternate universe is this? 

“That’s it,” Jeff swears, hands held up. 

Jared kicks Jeff under the table again and swipes the check from him. Immediately, Jeff protests that he meant to pay. Only after Jeff helps extract Jared out of the booth does Jared reveal the purpose of paying for breakfast. 

“Three words,” Jared says as they walk outside. “Deep clean tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> an update!!! Finally!! thanks y'all, for hanging in there. <3
> 
> omg what a year. i've had increasing issues with my liver on top of the usual fibro, RA, sjogrens, and EDS that i battle. just this past week i saw five doctors and had ten vials of blood drawn. TEN. sheesh. i'm also fresh out of a break up, exhausted from trying to work full time, and just taking care of myself in general.
> 
> but! i finally finally finally found some energy to write and post this. please let me know if something's off about it. i'm not sure i like this chapter 100% but that could just be me being shaky about writing again. 
> 
> thank you!


	27. Chapter 27

There are at least one hundred reasons why no sane, rational human being should ever,  _ ever _ open up a coffee shop. 

Luckily, Jared has never considered himself a sane, rational human being. 

Sure, owning a coffee shop provides him with glory and glamour, but he also has to take all the little heartbreaks with it. Just the other day, he spent ten minutes of his life mopping up the contents of two large lattes with extra whipped cream because Mr. Novarro and Mr. Tillman had another argument over chess. Ten minutes of Jared’s life gone. Poof. Never to be seen or heard from again. 

Who would pass up that kind of glory and glamour? 

Who would pass up the opportunity to spend four long hours deep cleaning an entire coffee shop?

No one.

Well, no one who wants to continue working at TB&TR. The owner included.

Quality caffeinated beverages cannot be crafted in a dirty environment or by using dirty equipment. Way too many shops focus on superficial maintenance and sanitation. Just a swipe of a rag here, a swipe of a rag there, and the occasional spray of bleach. Or, some owners will hire outside crews to clean, which ends up being worse because cleaning crews know how to clean surfaces and make things appear sanitized. They don’t know how to clean a coffee shop the way it needs to be cleaned.

If owners and staff want to continue earning paychecks, then they have to clean the shop themselves.

Commitment to cleanliness and treating a deep clean as seriously as brewing coffee or locking up for the night ensures repeat business. No one wants to sit at a sticky table. No one wants to taste grounds in the cup of coffee they paid good money for. 

Customers expect continuity. Good coffee. Good place to sit. Can’t have one without the other. It isn’t enough to sell a cup. If the customers are provided with a place to sit, to gather, to feel welcome, then the likelihood of them purchasing a second cup skyrockets. 

Repeat business is Jared’s business. 

He knows more than a few coffee shop owners who either don’t participate in deep cleans, hire outside crews, or, worst of all, don’t even bother. 

Jared will never drink a cup of anything from a cafe or shop with sticky tables, floors, or countertops. Sticky surfaces can only mean one thing: apathy. And if baristas don’t care about something as simple as wiping down surfaces, then Jared can only imagine what else they don’t care about. 

Promptly at nine o’clock, one hour before closing, Jared arrives at TB&TR. 

Sanjay waves and practically bounces from excitement. “Hello!” However, after a second, his smile and wave falter. “But where is your brother?”

“Nice to see you too,” Jared laughs and shakes his head. “You know, I’m the one who pays you.”

“I most certainly know that and thank you for it.” Sanjay sighs. He looks down at the checklist he had been reading from. “I just thought perhaps he would be here tonight.” 

Stepping behind the bar to check on supplies, Jared returns the sigh. “Well, even though I cannot be responsible for his rank odor or the dashing good looks shared with his younger brother, I guess, I suppose maybe he might possibly show up around midnight.” 

Excitement and energy return in Sanjay’s eyes and stance. “That is so good!”

Mar walks out of the backroom, drying her hands on her apron. “I thought maybe you’d let Jeff off the hook for this one.”

“Pft, no,” Jared quips and sets out a variety of coffee makers on the largest countertop. “He’s my brother and that means he gets to explore the joys of business ownership with me. With us. It’s a family event because I love him.”

Pinching the bridge of her nose, Mar mutters, “You’re gonna have him hose down the dumpster.”

“I’m gonna have him hose down the dumpster,” Jared cackles.

There are about ten people in TB&TR, which is slow for a Saturday night, but not terrible. At least they all have either medium or large sized drinks and one or two pastry items per table. Jared starts brewing a pot of medium blend coffee. He uses a French press and listens as Mar gives him a rundown of the afternoon. She updates him on inventory and suggests ordering a new V60 soon since she noticed one has a crack and the other looks worn. Jared murmurs that she can place an order using his credit card, but he wants to try a new vendor, a shop based out of Detroit that makes custom pieces. 

“Can you order two chemexes from them while we’re thinking of these things?” 

“Of course. You want this all expedited?” 

“Nope. I ain’t made of money.”

“Be a bit painful if you were.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Jared. Just ask.” Mar leans against the counter, arms folded over her chest. “As long as it’s not, ‘Mar, could you help Jeff hose down the dumpster?’ I’m all ears.”

Jared cracks a smile and joins her in leaning against the counter. “Do you think that taking time off for this kid is gonna do me some good?” He had hoped to come up with a more eloquent way of saying this shit, but fuck it. Words are words. 

Mar rolls her eyes. “Jeez, and here I thought this was going to be a difficult question. Can I reply with a slap to your face?” She pauses, hand to her chin in thought. “But then again, would that be too subtle?” 

“Fine,” Jared grumbles and turns back to the coffee makers. “Leave me and my hoard of gold.”

“Do you have a checklist for tonight that I can make copies of, oh fearless leader?”

“No. Not for you, you agree-with-Jeff-er.”

“So Jeff told you that? Then I would have to slap you twice because now I double agree. Fork over the checklist.”

“What makes you think I have one?”

“Because you  _ always _ do. If you could make a checklist of your own funeral, you would.”

“Only because I want to make sure y’all don’t fuck it up. Oh, fine.” Jared nods towards his messenger bag. “I added a few things since last time.”

After she lightly punches him in the shoulder, Mar finds the holy checklist of holiness and disappears to the pits of hell to continue her work. Or to Jared’s office. Could be the same place. 

Maybe the devil doesn’t have quite so much paperwork, though.

Or maybe he does. Who is Jared to question the prince of darkness? 

Jared makes himself laugh more than anyone else in the world. He smiles as he pours fresh coffee into pristine, porcelain tasting cups. Is he smiling just because of his internal crack about the devil? Or maybe because he… could it be? Has his heart shrunk three sizes? No, wait, grown. Grown three sizes? 

Could he genuinely be in a good mood? 

What terrible, horrible shit does the universe have planned for him if he is? 

This is just endorphins. Yeah. Endorphins. After breakfast, he bribed Jeff to go ice skating with him for an hour. They knocked around a puck on the ice with some old hockey sticks Herbie dug up. For all of Jeff’s bullshit about being a diehard football fan, he yakked it up about the NHL playoffs and why the Penguins deserved a spot at the conference finals more than the Jets. Jared challenged that statement by rapidly skating around Jeff and taking possession of the puck for the rest of their time on the ice. 

All those endorphins have blessed Jared, TB&TR, and the rest of the known world with his present good mood and he should take advantage. 

Plus all those endorphins from his morning activities with Jensen this morning. And last night. 

And the promise of more, extremely similar activities with Jensen in the near future. 

For the next half an hour, Jared hands out the tasting cups to the customers in TB&TR. For the folks who welcome it, he sticks around their tables for a few minutes and chats, asks them about their work, their weekend, their plans for the winter. This part is easy. Maybe even one of the best parts of owning TB&TR. He tells Tess to say hi to her dad out in Arkansas, wishes Fernando luck with his certification courses in culinary science, and politely responds to Katie’s complaints that he doesn’t sell coffee poured into glass test tubes. Mugs and cups, she assures him, are  _ so _ last year.

At quarter to ten, Jared helps Sanjay with the closing duties while Mar prepares buckets of sanitizer and cleaning solution in the backroom. 

The last customer leaves at five to. 

Ten o’clock heralds the official start of the deep clean. 

Sanjay locks up, Jared rolls up his sleeves, and Mar warns them not to get too carried away. For the first hour, Sanjay and Jared focus on carrying chairs and tables out back, clearing out the front, and turning off the espresso machines. Jared refers to his master checklist every few minutes. While the heavier pieces of furniture need to wait for Jeff and Oliver. 

Originally, Oliver was set to work from ten to midnight, but he and Mar switched shifts for Sunday. Thankfully, the switch doesn’t affect the overall plan or flow of work. There’s plenty to do that doesn’t involve heavy lifting. 

Jared decides to start with the espresso machines since taking them apart involves some mess. He trades coffee jokes and puns with Sanjay as they begin espresso machine surgery. Without regular cleaning, oil and mineral residues build up and degrade the machines--bad for business and repeat business. Each TB&TR staff member performs basic cleaning duties on each machine at the start and end of their shift. However, only Jared, Mar, and Sanjay are trained and certified to break down the machines.

Rinsing. Wiping. Backflushing. Scrubbing. 

Group heads. Valves. Machines lines. 

The baby kicks as if to signal the time. Jared takes a break and checks his phone. He wipes the sweat off his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. Quarter to midnight. Good. This is the most overlap they’ll have tonight. Gina arrives two minutes later, their one and only volunteer for the night. Mar immediately asks for her help moving the coolers away from the walls. 

“Lana is here!” Sanjay chirps, up to his elbows in soapy water. “Which means Jeff will also be here soon! Oh, wait. Is that him?” 

“Probably,” Jared says, too busy fighting with machine parts to look up. “He better get his ass over here and help me with this shit.” 

The sound of Jensen’s voice causes Jared to freeze. “Well. My ass isn’t perfect, but I could help you with that shit. If you want.” 

Good mood? 

God damn  _ fantastic  _ mood now.

Jared tries, for an entire three milliseconds, not to let his emotions show. It was a good three milliseconds. He looks directly at Jensen and feels something kind of like heartburn, not really like gas, but closer to that feeling after drinking cold soda too fast on a summer day. Something like that. 

Jensen stands before him, on the other side of the counter, dressed in blessedly worn jeans, a weathered Cowboys shirt, and a gray pair of dad sneakers that have clearly seen days out on the ranch back in Texas.

He is dressed to clean.

Abby calls out, “Dad! Don’t just stand there!” 

With a roll of his eyes, Jensen waves her off. He clears his throat and fidgets for a moment before he reveals a mop he had been hiding behind his back. 

“I figured… you probably have mops here,” he says, his voice kept at an intimate volume. “But I thought I’d bring my own. You know, just in case y’all needed an extra.” 

There are at least one hundred reasons why no sane, rational human being should ever,  _ ever _ open up a coffee shop. 

Luckily, Jared ignored all of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello! anyone still here?! i'm back! :D
> 
> thank you for your patience while my life was incredibly chaotic. i immensely appreciate you sticking around to read this. i missed this verse soooo much.
> 
> onwards! <3

**Author's Note:**

> A NEW FIC!!! 
> 
> Just in time for the holidays! <3
> 
> I'll be updating the tags as we go. And feel free to let me know what you'd like to see in this fic either by commenting here or sending a message on my tumblr: compo67.tumblr.com. <3
> 
> This chapter was inspired by "In the Heights" with Lin-Manuel Miranda, and "When He Sees Me" by Sara Bareilles. You can expect lots more coffee puns + music. Onward!!


End file.
